


Solivagant

by peachiinari



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Aged-Up Gon Freecs/Killua Zoldyck, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Gore, Hurt, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Swearing, Tags May Change, Trigger warning:, Violence, Zombies, hxh big bang 2020, hxhbb, hxhbb2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 65,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24990637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachiinari/pseuds/peachiinari
Summary: Killua has lost count of the years.He doesn’t know what day it is, or the year he’s in, or how many times his birthday has passed. He stopped counting—because it was just a bitter reminder of the world that is now long gone.Instead, he fights for every passing day to stay alive. Buildings have crumbled, plants have overturned concrete, fond memories have faded. He holds Nanika close, knowing anyone who sees her will try to kill her for what she is.The years pass in a blur—a monotonous repetition of “fighting for your life”.Until one Gon Freecss stumbles upon him, and offers refuge.Until one Gon Freecss is kind, and loving, and the reason he starts counting the years again.✧((or: It's the apocalypse. It's been eight years and Killua has given up on everything, until meeting Gon changes that.))
Relationships: Alluka Zoldyck & Killua Zoldyck, Gon Freecs & Killua Zoldyck, Gon Freecs/Killua Zoldyck, Nanika & Killua Zoldyck
Comments: 109
Kudos: 345
Collections: Hxhbb





	Solivagant

**Author's Note:**

> For any Spanish phrases, translations in English are in the End Notes!
> 
> Solivagant  
> So·liv·a·gant | noun
> 
> literally: “a solitary wanderer”.
> 
> “a person who revels in the act of wandering alone”.

It happens when Killua is speaking lowly with Alluka, his hands running through Nanika’s hair. They’re hungry—starving—bodies frail and thin, skin pale, discussing where to go next. Where to find food and shelter for the day.

Something is walking.

There’s something there, on the floor beneath them, wandering around the debris and rubble. 

A hush falls.

Killua doesn’t know what it is—doesn’t _want_ to know, but he has to check it out. He has to check it out and see what’s there, because Nanika and Alluka are sitting next to him—weak and tired and barely clinging on. Killua as well, he’s barely surviving—but the sun cycles every passing day without rest, and so that means they must too. 

His footsteps are quiet. 

One foot in front of the other. Walking on the balls of his feet—one foot, then another; their placement perfect and practiced. He inches closer, down the crumbling stairs. Sheetrock and mold, rusted pipes exposed. Slow steps—deep, quiet breath. His hands tremble from the hunger, but he forces himself to get a grip. _He needs to get a grip._

Whatever is there can’t get to Nanika or Alluka. 

Footsteps that don’t belong to him get louder. They shuffle aimlessly, loud and uncaring—as if the gravity of the world is too much to bear. 

Killua would have to agree. 

Something is rounding the corner, and Killua can’t discern what it is, what’s making the noise, because he doesn’t hear the muttering he’s grown accustomed to listening for. He doesn’t hear the low moans, or the clicks, or the struggle of walking. But there’s shuffling—and that’s enough to clue him in. 

It’s rounding the corner, Killua can see its shadow from the ground. Slightly hunched over, stepping slowly. He zeroes in on the seconds it’s going to take to pin the thing to the wall and kill it. 

He’d picked this building because it had collapsed in the direction of the rising sun—a huge gaping hole let natural light stream in, coloring the plants growing against the ugly grey concrete a vivid green. Anything that snuck in would be seen from the shadows casted on the ground. 

He’s moving before he knows what he’s doing—knife drawn from the sheath strapped to his thighs. It’s rough, and amateurly sharpened, but it was the best he could do. 

_Quickly._

_Deep breath, focus, concentrate._

There are people he needs to protect. 

He doesn’t like doing this. 

He’s pinning something against the wall. 

There’s a choking sound—but he hasn't plunged the knife through rotted skin yet. 

Killua needs to remember the faces of those he kills. Those who he murders—because they had lives too. They had lived, just as they had, and tried their damndest to survive. And they had failed, utterly failed, but Killua wouldn’t kill them without at least remembering their faces. 

Golden skin dusted in freckles, black hair, wide hazel eyes.

Killua’s heart comes to a stuttering halt.

It’s not the familiar decomposing grey hue. Not rotten, not smelling bad, not hissing and struggling against his grip. 

That isn’t a Screamer. 

That’s—

—That’s a human.

It’s been a long time since he’s seen one. Some _one_ and not some _thing_. A person, with thoughts and opinions and intelligible speech. A person with memories and the ability to articulate responses. A person who can feel—who isn’t Alluka or Nanika. 

There’s silence.

There’s only ever silence. 

Killua can’t stand the silence sometimes. 

He presses the knife further into the man’s throat, making sure to press it against the side of his neck. The man is against the wall, spine straight, and so an incision won’t be hard. As long as his carotid artery isn’t tight, the knife will cut smoothly against the supple skin. It can be quick.

This can be quick. 

The man swallows—doesn’t make any move to try and remove the knife by force. He isn’t trying to disarm him.

“I won’t hurt you.” He starts, gritting his teeth and arching his neck back and away when Killua presses the knife further into the side of his throat. “I’m just scavenging for supplies.” 

His voice is coiled—taunt and stressed and clear with every syllable. Breathless.

Killua doesn’t speak for a moment, just stares into his eyes, but lets the knife sit there against the honey-colored flesh. Maybe he digs the tip of his knife a little more, applies a little pressure, for dramatic effect. He doesn’t need this scavenger thinking he’s some easy prey. 

“I don’t remember asking.” His voice is gruff. Purposely toned lower than usual, a rumble of how he usually speaks. 

If he speaks lower—more intimidatingly—this person won’t come back. This person won’t come back and hurt Alluka or Nanika. This person, whoever he is and whatever background he holds, won’t bring other people to hurt them. He can’t take chances, not with how Nanika is right now. 

“Brother?” 

A soft voice—gentle and caring and worried. Killua swears under his breath. 

“Alluka. Go back upstairs.” 

The man he has pinned looks over his shoulder. 

“Brother, that’s not a Screamer.” 

Killua opens his mouth to retort, but he can’t _tear_ his eyes away from this person. He can’t risk even one second of dividing his attention between this person and his younger sisters. He doesn’t get a chance to speak.

The man is staring at him, eyes flickering between his sister and him. “Why are you harboring a Screamer?” 

Killua’s form tenses. 

He digs the knife deeper—it draws blood. Red oozes just a little—thick and crimson and not at all dry. It’s an interesting sight to see. 

“She’s not a fucking Screamer. She’s my little sister.” 

Weakly, restrained and unable to speak, the man nods in understanding. 

“Can you lower the knife, please?” 

He doesn’t want to. 

Having the man pinned like this feels safe. It feels like, if he needs to, he can slice a life away in personal defense. He doesn’t like doing this, but it’s a necessity. 

Something is shuffling behind him. A familiar gurgle, and dragged feet. “ _Kih_ — _Kiruah_.” 

It’s an ugly sound.

The knife in Killua’s hands loosens, and his vision swims just for a moment. 

He grits his teeth, hesitantly lowering the knife. Furrows his eyebrows and clenches his hands into fists until they’re as white as his hair used to be.

The man brings up a hand to rub his throat, grimacing when a bit of blood smears on his own hand. He doesn’t move—doesn’t lunge at Killua, doesn’t try to over-power him for the knife. He just stands. Killua doesn’t. He knows better than to stay close. So he steps back, eyes still on him, until he can feel his sisters behind him. 

Killua reaches out for Nanika’s hand, runs his fingers against her skin to soothe her. He thinks she must be anxious with how restless both Alluka and Killua had become. He’s not sure if the action really calms her anymore. It's been a long time since all this shit went down. 

A smile. The man is giving Nanika a smile, small and polite and kind, and Killua bristles. 

“Don’t smile at her.” He spits, standing further in front of Nanika to obscure her from the man. “Don’t fucking look at her.”

Silence. 

A tug on his sleeve. Alluka is staring the man down, bat drawn, and Nanika is holding onto Killua—nails long and hands covered in dust. Her clothes are bloodied and soiled in guts and it’s the least Killua can do to make sure a Screamer won’t attack her. It’s the least he can offer her after everything. 

There’s a stalemate. 

Neither of them move. 

Hazel stares into sapphire.

Seconds trail on, uncounting, and there’s a low groan outside. The buildings speak—shaky under the weakening foundation of the city streets, crumbling under their weight. Plants have started to sprout through cracks in the concrete, shattering the remnants of mankind’s creations. There’s trash and debris and spray paint. 

_Not safe._

_Dead people here._

_No sanctuary._

The words drawn onto the walls seem more like the wails of the innocent than warnings for the unsuspecting. 

And even then, the world continues turning. 

The sun is bright today—skies painted in a pretty blue that resemble the old color of Killua’s eyes. 

“How old are you?”

Killua stares. He doesn’t feel inclined to reply, but does so anyway. “I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know?” 

He bristles because he feels _stupid_. “No. There’s not exactly a time to keep track of anymore.” 

The man blinks owlishly. He doesn’t utter a single word for seconds on end, opting to just stare at him. Killua thinks that’s the end of the conversation.

“It’s been eight years.” He speaks suddenly. “Since the apocalypse, I mean. We’re in May right now.” 

His breath feels punched out of him. Eight _years_. Eight years—that’s… Killua counts the years using his fingers—thirteen...fourteen….fifteen, sixteen, seventeen… _twenty-one_. Alluka and Nanika are twenty-one now. Twenty-one, barely adults, surviving in a hellscape that they shouldn’t have to. 

Killua wants to groan, run his hands down his face in agony and despair—the little things that matter, like their birthdays, have been missed eight times. 

“I’m twenty-five.” The man says, smiling. 

And Killua makes a face, because he didn’t _ask_ , nor does he care. But Nanika is tugging on his sleeve again, and Alluka lowers her bat just a little. They want him to respond. 

“Then…” Killua trails off—a silent mutter of numbers. “I guess… I should be twenty-four then. You said it’s May right?”

He nods.

Killua sighs. “Yeah. I guess I’m twenty-four for a few more months.” 

An awkward pause. 

Vaguely, Killua’s mind registers how weird this all is. It feels like a dream—a good dream, maybe. He’s found another human, someone else—someone who isn’t going to hurt them. It’s kind of cruel to conjure such thoughts, isn’t it? He wants to laugh at the cruelty of it all. 

“Do you need somewhere to stay?” 

The question catches Killua off-guard.

“I’m the leader of a camp. It’s why I’m scavenging for supplies. We have lots of resources, but I still do scavenging for extra junk.” 

Killua bites down the urge to scoff. He doesn’t _want_ to swallow his pride. 

“We don’t need your help.” 

The stranger arches an eyebrow, growing bolder the longer he’s in their presence. His skepticism is clear, with the way he furrows his eyebrows and presses his lips together in opposition—staring at Killua with a gaze that’s all-too-akin to a mother waiting for their child to admit their loss. 

Killua opens his mouth to speak, to give some smart-ass retort so that this man will leave them _alone_.

Alluka beats him to the punch. 

“We take your deal.” 

And Killua wants to whip around and stare with shock. He wants to turn and ask what the _hell_ she’s doing—because, because they don’t _know_ this person. This person could be anyone. He could be a murderer. There could be no camp—instead, there could be rebels waiting to take what little they already have and kill them. 

There’s been a traveling murmur of a faction that’s eating people. 

The walls have spoken it. 

Killua doesn’t want that risk percentage increasing for Alluka or Nanika. 

He swears under his breath.

“Great!’ The man beams, all smiles and sunshine, and completely oblivious to Killua’s anger. “You can just pack your things. We can head back as soon as you’re ready. I’ll wait here.” 

Quietly, Killua turns, gently grasping Nanika’s hand in his own to lead her upstairs. She fumbles with her steps, dragging her feet a little, hand loose in his own—but he doesn’t mind. Alluka follows behind them, until they’re up the crumbled and decayed stairs, and Alluka is shuffling for the dirty comforter on the floor. 

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Killua says, voice hushed, standing with his arms crossed. “We don’t know him.”

Alluka doesn’t look up from the ground, picking up the loose books and crayons. “We’re starving, brother.”

“I know. I’m trying.” 

She sighs, finally looking up to him. Her eyes trail from him to Nanika beside him, standing still, pressed into his side with a contorted smile. “But it’s not enough. You’re dying—We’re all dying. We won’t make it like this. Maybe he’s lying, but the outcome would be the same if we stayed here wandering.” 

Killua _knows_. 

“He could be sent from our parents.” 

“I’ve considered that too.” 

He grits his teeth. “They’d kill Nanika, Alluka. You know they would. They’re not looking for either of you—just me.” 

“I know, brother. I know.” She’s exasperated. He can hear it in her voice. “But we’re starving. And we’re no exception to the rule—we get weak, we get bitten, we turn.”

Silence wafts in the air as Alluka huffs, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, pushing the old, ripped books and crayons into a self-made bag. She grabs the comforter. 

“Help me with this?” 

Killua smiles softly. “Still can’t fold shit yourself?”

“Very funny.” She says dryly, though there’s a grin on her lips despite the bags under her eyes. 

It grows quiet as they quietly fold the comforter as small as they can. Folded over, and over, and over again, until it’s just a thick, small rectangle, folded unevenly. It’ll do. 

As Alluka stuffs it into the bag, Killua speaks. 

“You’re twenty-one now.” 

He doesn’t hide the awe in his own voice.

“Don’t feel it.”

A quiet laugh. “Yeah. I don’t feel twenty-four, either.” 

Alluka looks up, eyes tender. “Has it really been eight years? When did we lose track of the time?” Her voice trails off. 

Killua’s voice is gentle, one hand coming to grab hers, another reaching out to beckon for Nanika’s. She gargles, pale flesh contorting to show a smile—a scrunch of her nose. She struggles to walk to them, nearly tripping on her own two clumsy feet. Sometimes, looking at Nanika like this is painful, even now. Even after it’s been so long...

“We lost track when time wasn’t the most important thing anymore.”

It’s not a definitive answer. 

Killua doesn’t remember not knowing the day it was anymore.

He just remembers waking up—and being unable to tell if it was Tuesday or Wednesday. 

And then he remembers not knowing the month.

And then the year. 

The numbers grew jumbled in his head. 

When they get downstairs—Killua’s pace extra slow for Nanika—the man is standing, a can of spray paint out. He’s tagging the wall in a bright, vibrant red. The words drip from the wet paint, and it looks like splatters of blood on the wall. The can must be old if it’s spraying like that. Killua’s eyes drift to the words. He tries to internalize them.

It reads:

_Mito. La Luz. Donde you said Ging always was._

Killua doesn’t know who Mito is. Or Ging. He doesn’t recognize the words in the center. The words that don’t read in English—though they look familiar. Killua can’t quite place it. Things like languages have gradually faded from his memory. Gone, like everything else. 

He doesn’t ask the man who Mito or Ging is. 

The man looks over. “You’re already ready?” He doesn’t hide the surprise in his voice. 

And Killua thinks they must look pathetic, holding nothing but a bag with a folded blanket inside it. 

Alluka nods for him. 

“This is all we have.” 

Maybe he sees pity flash in the man’s eyes. He grinds his teeth in an effort not to lash out at the man. They were trying, damn it. They’d _been_ trying for the past eight years, apparently, and they’d been fine. 

With a nod, they’re heading out of the building. 

And it’s quiet.

It’s always quiet. 

Killua still isn’t used to the silence.

Or the destroyed state of the world. 

They walk carefully, steps calculated as they step on debris and litter. There are no Screamers in sight, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there. They’re somewhere. They always are.

And in the silence, with the knowledge that they’re headed either to their haven or their death, Killua takes it as his chance to look around for what may be his final time. He grips Nanika and Alluka’s hands, lips pressed together as the memories flash in front of him. 

Walking down the road, with ice cream for the three of them. Complaining about homework assignments, and staying up late to study for ridiculous quizzes, and tests, and finals. He faintly remembers the smell of his favorite chocolates, and the feeling of the cold air-conditioner hitting his skin. 

Killua fears forgetting those things the most. 

The things that make him human. 

He looks at the man, walking in front of them, a gaze of determination set on his face. 

Opens his mouth, shuts his mouth. The words tumble and clutter at his throat before he can manage to articulate himself. He stumbles over himself. 

“My name’s Killua.” 

The words are uttered so quietly, that Killua is surprised when he turns around and grins wide.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Gon.” 

Beside him, Alluka muffles a snicker. 

“I wouldn’t say anything about this is nice.” She starts, voice shaky with a laugh threatening to spill, “But it’s nice to meet you, Gon. I’m Alluka, this is my sister Nanika.” 

Gon’s eyes avert from Alluka to Nanika. Killua waits, silently. He watches for Gon’s reaction—for what he’ll say about Nanika. He can see the way Gon’s eyes take in her grimey appearance: the blood on the oversized hoodie, and the black leggings, and the gloves which cover the expanse of her skin. 

“Well, it’s nice to meet you too, Nanika.” 

Killua feels relief pool in his stomach. 

A gurgle has them all shifting to turn their attention to Nanika, and she’s giving Gon a half-smile—mouth twitching as she struggles to hold the feature. It’s more unsettling than anything, but she’s trying. Gon looks shocked, and suddenly Killua is fretting. 

“Ah, Nanika—Where’s Nanika’s mask?” 

“Here.” 

Alluka is holding out the grey mask, something he’d handcrafted himself years ago. Grey and ugly and colorless, not perfectly sculpted, missing the features of a human, but Killua thinks it’s better this way. The spot where the eyes should be for the mask are painted black. Originally, he’d hoped that the black would hide the true color of her skin. 

“Nanika, stand still, okay? Big brother is going to put the mask on you.” 

She pauses in her steps. And Gon is standing still to watch as Killua slowly slips the mask on, cupping her face to shake the mask a little and laugh once he’s done. A gurgle resounds from inside the mask—and a smile wiggles its way onto Killua’s features. Cautiously, he’s moving to fasten the straps on the back, careful alabaster hands tying the strings in neat bows, double and triple knotted for security measures. 

They resume walking once Killua takes Nanika’s hand again. 

“What have you been doing all these years?”

Gon’s question isn’t exactly unexpected, but it’s unsolicited nonetheless. 

“Scavenging.” 

“That’s it?”

“Yeah. There’s nothing else we could do.” 

“You haven’t ever been in a camp?”

Killua tenses, and Gon is quick to notice. 

“Ah!” He waves his hands frantically. “You don’t have to answer that.” 

Killua didn’t plan on. He averts his gaze.

In the distance, Killua can see several Screamers walking aimlessly, trapped inside a building. 

It’s weird to see plants thriving when there are dead bodies everywhere.

“Since you know everything there is to know about us, how about you tell us about your base?” 

Killua wants to know. He needs to know—to ease his mind and racing heart. _Where was Gon taking them?_

A hum. “We fortified a prison. I wanna say, maybe three years ago? It’s pretty secluded and hidden. We put up wires, reinforced the fences with boards and cars and general junk I’ve found on scavenges. You don’t have to worry about your safety.” 

“What about food? Water? Supplies? You said you had lots.” 

Gon nods. “We started doing agriculture as soon as we could. We basically have some sort of weird farm system going on. We were lucky enough that the back-up generators work with solar power—though the machine is kind of rusty, so we try not to overpower it too much.”

He pauses to look at Killua. “And there’s a lake right next to the prison. We fortified that too, with whatever we could find. Spare barb wire, fences, cars. The lake is clean of Screamers and it’s safe to bathe in. Just, obviously, don’t bathe at night.” 

Killua hums. His eyes wander. There are pieces of news articles on the floor, all from before this hell. Faded, printed words on ink. The pages are crumbled and expired beyond their years.

_Amid a Growing Population of Rabid Animals, Testing Comes Back Negative_

_Government Issued Action: All animals, including pets and service animals, must be turned over if exhibiting the following signs._

_WHO Warns of New Found Virus: Endemic suspected to only be found in the eastern villages of a least-developed country._

“When we get there, I’ll get you some clean clothes and a meal. We have plenty.” 

A nod. 

“There’s no animals, we don’t want to risk someone turning.” 

“So you’re living off vegetables?”

“Mmh, yeah. Sometimes we hunt for food. We have designated hunters for that.” 

Nanika needs raw meat. She needs to eat raw meat in order to stay functioning, and to live, and Killua needs access to raw meat. If he has to hunt for her—he will. So be it, it’s not a problem. But forests are dense, and harder to locate Screamers, and he’s not sure how many actual animals remain. 

“We’re here.” 

Killua looks up, and the breath feels punched out of him. 

In front of him, towering gates, lined with road spikes and pieces of carved wood sticking out. Tireless cars sit as extra reinforcement on the inside and outside of the fence. The gates creak before Gon can even say something, and Killua turns his gaze to the watchtower, where a figure is standing and holding position. 

Subconsciously, Killua grips Nanika’s hand tighter. 

“Nanika.” He whispers, running his thumb on her palm soothingly. “Big brother needs you to stay quiet, okay?”

A low gurgle. 

There are so many people. Children and mothers and older men. The children are running around, and the women are tending to the wet clothing hung on twine and trees. The men are holding axes, and wearing gloves, and some are sparsely loitering around. 

They all stare. 

Killua can feel their stares. 

Alluka shifts closer to them, and Gon doesn’t walk very far ahead of them. And despite the intimidation factor—the feeling of being watched high on their heels—Killua keeps his head up and straight ahead. Because confidence is everything. Confidence will keep those who want to mess with him away. It’ll deter them, and he needs that edge. 

There’s a main building they walk into. Large and expansive, with a few boarded windows and chipping paint. A row of windows, over and over in silly repetition. Gon pulls the door open, and holds it out for Killua. Inside, there are even more people. Not many elderly, but teenagers, and young adults. And they all wander—holding food or laughing or talking. 

Killua hasn’t seen anything like this in a long time. 

Gon turns to look at him. “I’ll show you around, and then get you—”

“Freecss!” 

The name makes him look over. 

“Who are these people?” 

Already, Killua begins to bristle. Alluka’s hands tighten in his own—whether to comfort him or calm him, he doesn’t know—and Killua slowly pulls Nanika a little closer to him. She follows the pull of his hand without uttering a single word.

“New refugees, I came across them while scavenging.” Gon’s voice is light, though stern, and he’s staring down the man.

“You sure about that?” 

Killua tenses. Thorns of fear cause tendrils to snake around his heart and stomach, coil deep within him and strangle him. A sweat breaks out on the back of his neck.

“What?” 

“That guy looks familiar.” He flicks his head towards Killua. “And what’s with the mask, huh?” He’s staring at Nanika. 

The anger spikes within Killua. 

Before Gon can respond, Killua speaks. “We’re not here to cause trouble. These are my younger sisters.”

“What’s your name?” 

Killua grits his teeth. 

_Breathe_.

“Killua. This is Alluka and Nanika.” 

Alluka waves. Nanika doesn’t move a single muscle. Her hand is still clasped around Killua’s. 

“Killua has valuable skills. He was able to disarm me without me noticing. Once he gets healthier, he’ll be helpful to us.” 

“He looks familiar.” The man repeats.

There are people forming a circle around them to see the ruckus. 

Gon sighs. “Who he was isn’t important.” 

“So you know?”

“ _We_ don’t know anything.” Gon stresses. “This isn’t important right now.”

The man huffs. “Fine. But the girl in the mask—she should take it off.” 

Killua nearly growls right then and there. _This_ is why they left last time. _This_ is why they were better off alone, without being in a camp. _This_ is why he didn’t want to go with Gon—anywhere. Nanika was always going to be in danger, regardless of where they went. 

“She’s not going to take off the—”

Someone is coming up, someone from the crowd. And Killua doesn’t see them, hand outstretched, because the person is in his blind spot, but he hears Nanika give a small, distressed sound and Killua turns to her just in time to see the strings come undone and the mask torn off. 

A gasp echoes. 

Wide eyes, murmurs, shouts of indignation. 

Nanika’s mouth is slightly agape, eyes wide and a dull blue color. There’s blood on her lips from the last meal Killua could get her, and the veins which run down her neck are clear and blue against the ashy-grey tone of her skin. Her hair is black and matted, eyes sunken just a little in. 

Killua swears under his breath. 

The murmuring rises, gets louder with every passing second, until people are clamoring. 

“Kill it!” 

The man in front of them flips out a small pocket knife, angling it down. 

And Killua has never reacted faster in his life; his hands are reaching for the knives strapped to his thigh, uncovering them from their sheath, gripping it tightly. Alluka is removing the bat hanging onto her back, holding it with both hands and standing with her knees slightly bent. 

“Hey—Hey!” Gon’s voice booms. “Leave Nanika be.”

“She’s a Screamer!” 

“She hasn’t done shit!” Killua interrupts. 

Gon reaches out, quickly coming in between the man and Nanika. 

“You—” Gon starts, voice low, “Need to _calm_ it. If she was a Screamer, she’d have already alerted other nearby ones and had us all killed.”

“But she’s—”

“She’s _one of us,_ ” Gon says, clipped. “So put the knife away.” 

A silence rings. 

“We’re—” Killua swallows. “We’re not here to cause trouble. Leave her alone.” 

It’s tense. 

No one moves. No one utters another word—before the man speaks up.

“You said your name was Killua?” 

Killua nods, slowly. 

“As in, Killua Zoldyck? Son of those military base leaders looking for you? I’d seen those posters looking for you. Rumor has it they won’t let anyone into their refugee camp until their son is found.” 

The murmuring explodes once again.

“Is that our ticket into an actual haven?” 

“They’ll take us in with the kid by our side, right?”

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

His family was still searching. He knows—he _has_ known. But they can’t find him, not now, not with Nanika with the way she is. She’s fragile, and weak, and barely resembles a human anymore. But she was his sister, damn it, she was his little sister, and Killua knows his parents would not hesitate to kill her because she wasn’t _important_ like he was. 

Gon seemingly senses his distress. 

“No one is doing anything.” The firmness of his voice kills any side-conversation. “Killua’s past isn’t important. He’s a refugee, just like the rest of us. We’re all struggling out here, alright? So…”

Gon’s voice trails off, and he stares pointedly at the man. “Chill out. Get off your high horse, since this means nothing to you. Threatening refugees is _not_ how we work things in this camp, understand?” 

The man sputters—tries to say something, only for Gon to interrupt once again, gaze hard. 

“If you want to betray people, and kill them, then you can walk your ass outside these gates and side with that new faction for all I care. But I won’t tolerate this here, understand?” 

A nod. Slowly, the man shuts the pocket knife, stuffs it back into his pocket with a swear. 

With the tension disepating, Killua feels as though he can finally breathe, and he sends Gon a quiet thanks, walking to the person still holding Nanika’s mask to take it back. Alluka is silent, staring holes into the crowd—each and every individual person. 

The newfound distance between Killua and Nanika has her stumbling to catch up with him, arms outstretched as she reaches for his bicep, fingers pulling gently on the tattered, worn shirt he’s wearing. 

“ _Kiruah, pah—pat my head._ ” 

Killua’s lips tremble, and he clenches his hands into fists before releasing, carefully taking the mask from the stranger and reaching out for Nanika’s head to lovingly run his fingers through her knotted scalp. Gentle, soft caresses that leave Nanika preening and giving her odd smile, muscles twitching from the strain of the feature. 

She’s asking for praise because she did just as he instructed her to do. 

_Killua is so proud of her._

The crowd stares in muted shock, some stepping back just a bit when Nanika moves close to him. 

Gon doesn’t let them stare any longer, beckoning for Killua to follow him, and for everyone to get back to what they were doing. Some still linger, watching as Killua takes Nanika’s hand once again and follows Gon through the building. This time, Gon is walking closer—just barely a foot in front of them, walking by their sides instead of in front of them.

When they’re alone, walking through quiet corridors of cells, he speaks. 

“I’m sorry about what happened.” 

Killua nods. 

“They’re nice people, really, but a lot of people have lost family to Screamers. Nanika’s appearance may have reminded them of what they lost.” 

Killua can’t even form the words. He can’t accept the apology. 

Alluka hums. “It’s fine. We understand.” 

_Do they, though?_

A quick stilling, and Gon pauses in front of an empty cell. “You guys can sleep in here if you’d like. I sleep a few cells down—if anyone causes you trouble, I’m right there.” 

The door is huge, a behemoth of a thing, and the locks are smashed—utterly broken into pieces. There’s a window to the side of the door, a little dirty and powered with dust, and from the outside they can see a bunk bed, along with a small toilet in the corner of the room. 

It’s certainly better than most of the places they stayed at. 

“You can walk in and get settled, I’ll go get you a change of clothing.” 

Killua reaches out, hand touching the cold doorknob, pulling outward until the door opens with a creak, and Alluka shuffles inside after Naninka. Gon moves away, and Killua watches as he steps four doors down and opens the door. That must be his room. 

“Brother, look!” 

The exclamation makes Killua redirect his attention back inside the room, and he smiles, stepping inside and closing the door to look around. 

It’s a small room. White walls peeling, floor dirty, and the beds are old and complain loudly when Alluka sets down on one. Nanika stands, unaware of what to do, head moving between Killua and Alluka, eyes staring at the both of them. She doesn’t move from her spot, watching as Alluka unfolds the comforter they’d brought along with them.

“It’s not bad.” 

Killua stares at the two beds at opposite ends of the room. That won’t do—Nanika is used to sleeping between Alluka and him. 

“I’ll push the beds against each other, so we have one big bed.” 

Alluka hums, standing from her seat on the bed to walk towards Nanika and shift her away from the space. 

“Need help?”

“Nah. I got it.” 

The floors squeak against the bedpost, a loud sound that has Nanika shaking her head in agitation, and Killua apologizes, trying to move quickly enough to ease her. It becomes clear to him that the lack of food in his system has made him weak. He’s lost his muscle—a lot of it—and his body complains against the strength he needs to heave the beds together. 

His hands tremble from the exertion when there’s a knock at the door, and it opens slowly.

Gon stands there, holding several articles of clothing. 

“Hey—woah.” 

In an effort to hide the shaking of his hands from his sisters and Gon, Killua crosses his arms—arches an eyebrow in question.

“What?”

Gon frantically waves his hands. “Nothing! Just surprised. I didn’t think of doing that.”

Killua deadpans. “Seriously?” 

He sticks out his tongue. 

“I brought clothing you guys can change into.” 

Deft fingers reach out, lightly touching the clean clothing. Killua feels a little overwhelmed, even if it’s silly. To have clean clothing, for Alluka and Nanika, for them to be able to wear something clean and not smudged with dirt and blood. Something that isn’t torn. 

“Thanks.” 

Gon smiles.

And without question, Killua hands Alluka her clothing, and places Nanika’s on the bed, before reaching to pull off his own shirt. The tattered shirt comes off easily, revealing protruding ribs and a thin frame. He can feel Gon staring, and he bristles, pushing down the clean shirt before looking to stare at him. 

“What? Why’re you staring?” Killua’s voice is gruff. 

Silence, before Gon opens his mouth to speak. 

“Do you want to eat something? Kitchens are open all day.”

When Killua doesn’t respond, Gon continues. “Let’s go to the kitchens. Alluka and Nanika can change first and then we can go.” 

Slowly, he looks back at Alluka, and she nods. He sighs, giving a noise of affirmation to Gon, opening the door to step out, and Gon follows. They don’t speak, not a single word, even though Gon looks anxious to make conversation. Killua wonders why. 

From where they stand, he can look into the room, can see Alluka carefully taking off Nanika’s mask and lifting her arms to remove the disgusting hoodie. She’s already changed into a newer black turtleneck—obviously sized for men—and pants that fit just a little loosely on her figure. 

“Is there any chance I can have something to cover the window?” 

Gon startles, having apparently been deep in his thoughts. “Wha—Oh, yeah. It’s no problem. Is cardboard fine? Most of us have a cloth or something on the windows, but if you prefer something sturdier, cardboard is in abundance.” 

“Cardboard is fine.” 

The door creaks open, and Alluka is walking out, holding Nanika’s hand. They’re both changed into freshly changed clothing, and Nanika looks pleased to be wearing new things—he’s sure that the smell of old clothing annoyed her too. 

They pass more and more cells as they walk down the corridor, countless doors—some with drawings on it, others with colorful cloths on the window. It adds character, and personality, and makes space for new memories in a way that Killua thought he’d never see again.

Not in the world they’re currently in. 

Gon points out one of the doors, explaining that the lake was “that way”. Not that it was any helpful in directions or figuring out their current position in the prison. He says that he’ll show them around the entire base later if they’re up for it. Killua appreciates the sentiment—appreciates the effort to ease them in. 

The dining area—dozens of round tables in a large room—already has more than enough people to make Killua feel uneasy. They stare and whisper and mumble words to themselves and others around them, taking in Killua and Alluka’s appearance, but even more-so Nanika’s. 

Killua feels the anger spike within him again, if they dared to utter a single word towards his sister. 

“Here,” Gon says, motioning to tables laid out with food. “Just pick out what you like.”

And Killua can’t help but stare. 

He hasn’t seen this much food in a long, _long_ time. 

There’s lettuce, and cabbage, and tomatoes, and carrots. Corn, cucumbers, mushrooms, onions, potatoes, pumpkin. 

There’s soup, and rice, and beans— _dehydrated meat_. 

“Holy shit…” Killua swears, voice trailing off. “What the fuck?” 

Alluka is just as stunned, staring at all the food. Gingerly, she picks up a roughly-carved plate. “Where did you even find the rice and meat?” 

Gon smiles. “We found small markets that were basically unraided, and two bunkers which went unused, unfortunately. I had to get a small team to help me bring all the nonperishables.”

A noise of awe, and Killua carefully stacks some rice onto his wooden plate. Lettuce and tomatoes too. Not too much, the voice in his head says. He watches as Gon also takes a plate of his own, layering rice and beans and meat onto it. Alluka is careful in her pickings: Lettuce and tomatoes, with corn and rice and beans. 

“Is the meat…” Killua doesn’t even know how to phrase the question. 

“Carrying the disease?” Gon supplies, and when Killua nods, he shrugs. “No idea. It probably has some of the virus in it, if I’m honest. But we’re all infected by now—I’m sure you know that.”

Killua presses his lips together, nodding. “Yeah…” 

But Gon doesn’t let the mood somber, smiling all white teeth and happiness before motioning to one of the empty tables. “C’mere. You can sit there.” 

It’s only when he realizes, seated on the table, that there’s nothing really for Nanika to eat. She sits next to him dutifully, watching—or maybe she isn’t, he doesn’t know, but he likes to think she still has some semblance of mind to watch—as he sets the plate down. 

“Gon,” Killua starts, voice quiet and unsure. “Do you have raw meat?”

He frowns. “Raw meat?” 

Killua hums. “Nanika needs to eat, but she can’t eat human food. I found out raw _anything_ is fine for her. If you don’t have any, I can hunt something in the forest right now.” 

“That won’t be necessary.”

A noise of confusion, and Gon grins. 

“We hunted a deer two days ago. I’ll go into the kitchen and cut a piece. Is there any specific size you need?” 

Silence. Killua thinks. Runs through the sizes in his head. “A six-inch cut is fine.” 

Gon nods. “I’ll be right back.” 

Neither Alluka nor Killua eat while they wait for Gon to return. Their hands entwine with Nanika’s, and she makes a gurgle of a sound—happy and content, and Killua’s heart squeezes. God, he loves her so much. So, so much. Her hand is limp in his, and he knows she can’t control that much, but having it there at all is a comforting feeling. 

When Gon returns, he’s holding onto a wooden plate, one thick piece of deer shank—Killua can tell—in the plate. And it’s _big_. Sufficely so. It must’ve been a huge deer, if the shank is that size. 

Carefully, Gon places the plate in front of Nanika and takes his own seat in front of the siblings. The people around them are watching. They watch as Killua slowly lets his hand go from Nanika’s grasp, as does Alluka. They watch as Killua brings his hands up, nimble fingers untying the mask from her face—slowly revealing the pale skin and blue veins protruding. 

Murmurs. 

Killua ignores them. 

He doesn’t take a bite from his plate until Nanika has shakily extended out her hands, slowly gripping onto the raw meat, and Killua watches as the blood drips—soaking the plate and table—and watches as Nanika brings it to her lips, taking a slow bite. She chews slowly, struggling to keep her mouth shut—muscles in her mouth faltering every once in a while—but she’s managing. 

Killua sighs, giving a gentle smile and patting her head. 

It’s the first time she’s eaten in nearly four days. 

It’s going to be the first time _he’s_ eaten in nearly a week. 

He’d been giving whatever small rations he found to Alluka—to keep her alive. Because she was more important. She mattered more. 

Maybe it’s a force of habit. 

The way Killua slowly piles some of his food onto Alluka’s plate as extra food. 

It’s a cycle he can’t break—accustomed to it even before this hell. Reinforced stronger only because of trying times. 

She pauses from chewing to look at him, and Killua knows there’s a hint of sadness in her eyes, in the way that she watches him pile more and more food onto her plate, until his plate is half as full as it originally was. 

“Killua.” Gon’s voice is stern. Quiet, but stern. It makes Killua’s movements falter. “Stop. You don’t need to do that anymore. You need to eat.” 

Killua bristles, ready to retort, because that’s his sister, and he can do damn well as he pleases, but Alluka is piping up too. 

“He’s right, brother. It’s alright. You need to eat, too.” 

He chews on his lip, swallowing down his pride, and ego, and self. He swallows down the retort and everything that would’ve come with it. Killua knows this. He knows he needs to do it. It’s just—It’s just a force of habit. After so many days and weeks and months of repetition. 

Not a single word comes out of his mouth. 

Gon carefully piles some of his own food—the rice and beans, and the meat—onto Killua’s plate. And Killua’s head snaps up to stare at him, but Gon only offers a smile. 

“I can always get more. You need to eat, okay?” 

Not a single word comes out of his mouth. 

They finish the meal with little words spoken in between. 

Killua doesn’t speak for the remainder of the meal, eyes downcast as he eats, movements slow, chewing everything before swallowing. _Not too much,_ the voice in his head says, _not too much or you’ll waste it all._ He finishes his food before Alluka and Nanika, opting to sit and watch as Nanika takes more and more bites, until not much is left. And then she’s swallowing that down too. 

Gon had brought napkins to the table, or whatever was supposed to substitute them. Dirty cloths, stained several times but cleaned regardless. And Killua is gentle when he grabs the cloth, beckoning Nanika to look over at him. She does, all doe-eyed and mouth slightly agape. She stares at him, eyes unwavering and unblinking, and her hands curl and let go on her lap. 

“Nanika, big brother is going to clean your face a bit, okay?” 

She smiles, lips twitching in effort, and she leans in to his touch, closing her eyes. 

“You’re such a messy eater, Nanika.” Killua chides lightly, laughing when she gurgles in response. 

The room is quiet, everyone spectating him. 

They watch as Killua wipes her mouth carefully, dabbing at her skin and lips in an effort not to hurt her too much. Killua isn’t sure how sensitive to touch she is now. And he grabs her hands, running the cloth through her bloodied hands, until what’s left is a red-dyed stain and not actual liquid. He’ll have to clean her hands with actual water later—in the lake. 

There are whispers that Killua ignores. 

Alluka finishes right after, too. And she gives her thanks to Gon, who only nods and smiles. 

“Is there anything you want to see around the camp? I can show you around now.” Gon says, looking at them. 

Killua directs his attention to Alluka, and it’s as if she understands him, shaking her head. 

“Is it alright if we just… rest today?”

Gon waves his hands frantically. “Yeah, of course! Sorry, you’re all probably exhausted.” 

She smiles. “Thanks.” 

Without another interruption, Gon is standing. 

“C’mon, I’ll take you back to your room. You probably already know your way there, but just in case.” Gon sticks out his tongue. 

Killua stands, and he motions for Nanika to stand, taking her hand in his to lead her down the corridor. He keeps her mask in his other hand, and he can see the way her eyes are closing—half-lidded and tired from the meal—as they walk down to their designated room. 

She’s not strong enough to push the door open, instead just weakly pushing at it, and Alluka is the one that opens it, stepping inside and being followed by Nanika’s stumbling figure. Killua lingers outside for a few moments, watching Gon, gauging the man for a response that seems to be at the tip of his tongue. 

“Don’t worry about doing anything—just focus on resting. We can give you both positions in the camp once you’re all strong enough to do simple stuff like farming and cooking.” 

Killua makes a noise of acknowledgement. “Thanks.” 

Gon smiles, lips curling into a grin. “Rest well, Killua.” 

He hums in response, and pushes open the door. 

It shuts with a click, and he can faintly hear Gon walk away from the echoes down the hall. Alluka sits on the bed, Nanika already settled between her and the spot Killua would eventually take, eyes barely open now. And Alluka looks just as content, holding one of Nanika’s hands and drifting in and out of slumber. 

“I’m back.” Killua says, voice barely above a whisper. 

“‘Elcome back,” She says, slurring her words and closing her eyes, not lifting her gaze from the side she lays on. 

Killua is glad she’s eaten—that she’s full and drifting into a peaceful sleep. 

He takes a seat next to Nanika, on his side of the bed, entwines their hands together. For a moment, he feels Nanika’s fingers twitch, as if trying to hold onto him tighter than usual. The action nearly springs tears to his eyes. 

It’s quiet, and warm, and Killua can hear Alluka and Nanika’s breathing begin to even. 

“Killua.” Alluka’s voice is loud in the silence. “Be kinder to Gon. He rescued us when he didn’t have to.” 

He doesn’t reply for a moment. 

“I am being kind.” 

“You’re being apprehensive. Just... “ She trails off. “It’s okay now. You can rest.” 

And he wishes he could. 

Wishes he could rest.

Because that’s all Killua wants. 

He wants to be able to shut his eyes and drift into nothing. For his thoughts to empty, for his mind to clear and calm and breathe. But even as Alluka’s breathing slows, even as Nanika’s grip becomes limp, even as the day sets and turns into night, Killua is still awake—staring at the ceiling. 

Killua doesn’t know how many hours pass. How many times the seconds lapse into minutes and then into hours. But he assumes it's several, because he can see people walk by through the window—dozens of them, just striding past, more and more groups as time flew by. 

Until there’s none. 

Until it’s sparse and Killua can count how many pass by with one hand. 

Until there’s a figure that pauses at the window, looking in, and Killua’s blood runs cold for a second. It takes his eyes a moment to focus and realize the person standing there is Gon, looking in to see if Killua is awake. And with a gentle huff of annoyance, reminding himself of Alluka’s words, Killua pushes himself off the bed. 

It creaks, but Alluka and Nanika are dead asleep, in such a wonderful slumber. Killua gazes fondly at them before looking back at the window, seeing Gon wave at him. Quiet steps, stepping slowly, approaching the door as if Gon were a Screamer outside, unalerted by Killua’s presence, he opens the door.

And there stands Gon, holding two cups of water, and balancing a slice of cake atop a piece of cardboard. 

Killua shuts the door. It barely makes an audible click.

“Ta-da!” He says, grinning wide, holding out the cake with the cardboard. “Multipurpose cardboard!”

It cracks a genuine smile out of Killua—though laced with exhaustion. He takes the cardboard, mumbling a small thanks. 

“Thought I’d come to check up on you. I thought you’d be awake.” 

Killua frowns, though he relishes the sweet taste of cake in his mouth. It’s creamy, and rich, and _wow_ , he hasn’t had something like this in so long. He wonders where Gon got the cake in the first place. 

“You didn’t have to check up on us. We wouldn’t cause you trouble.” 

This time, it’s Gon’s turn to frown. “Didn’t think you were causing trouble. As leader, I make rounds to check on lots of people and make sure they’re okay.” 

“Oh.” 

Gon laughs, a tender sound. He hums, watching as Killua takes bites from the small slice of cake. It grows quiet, until Killua feels it eat away at him—until he can’t stand the sound. Because silence was always bad, and silence reminded him of the outside world, and its current state, and the eight years they’d endured. 

“Thanks…” He mumbles, looking away. Alluka’s words ring in his head. “Thanks for standing up for Nanika.” 

It looks like Gon hadn’t expected that comment, because his eyes are widening, mouth opening to gape, and it takes him a moment to process the words before his gaze turns a little serious, tone a little deeper. 

“Of course. I don’t allow that type of stuff here. And she’s your sister—not a Screamer.” 

The words punch holes in Killua’s heart. Because… Because… he’d never expected anyone to _actually_ stand up for Nanika. Not if they weren’t Alluka or himself—much less a stranger. He’d never expected someone to see her as his sister and not _a thing_ , a _Screamer_. 

“Why are you awake anyway?” Gon asks. 

Killua furrows his brows. “I could ask you the same thing.”

Gon laughs. “That’s not very fair. I asked you first. Plus, I already told you what I was doing.” 

And Killua feels a small sense of his old habits—the ones prior to the apocalypse, collecting dust and forgotten—spring back to life. He wants to joke around, even if just a little, because he’s found another person who _isn’t_ his two sisters. 

“Mmm. But you waited until now to check up on everyone? Kinda weird, I dunno.” There’s a teasing lilt to Killua’s voice, and Gon flusters just a little.

“Force of habit, I guess.” Gon scratches his cheek. 

“Then the same applies to me.” 

Gon looks over, staring straight into Killua’s eyes, there’s a lapse of silence before he opens his mouth again to speak. 

“You know…” He starts, handing Killua the cup of water and taking the plate from him. “You don’t have to worry about this prison being breached. It’s the first thing I prioritized after what happened in the past location.” 

His eyes darken, for just a second. 

Killua takes a swing of his water to avoid speaking—to fill the silence with _something_. His throat feels parched. 

“And Screamers have never gotten in, so you really don’t need to worry.” 

“Gon…” The sound of his voice is loud in the silence—a stark difference, harsh and different, though not at all unwelcome. He looks up. “Never say never. You find that the most interesting of circumstances happen when you don’t believe they will.”

Gon doesn’t say anything. 

“Killua, would you like to see the outside of the prison?”

His eyes widen. “Right now? At night?” 

Gon nods. “Yeah. I can show you it’s safe.” 

He ponders the words for a second. The offer. If he accepts, he can scope the area, maybe see any spots that are hazardous. But that means leaving Nanika and Alluka alone—sleeping and unsuspecting of anyone that may enter the room. 

He shakes his head. “My sisters are asleep. I don’t want to leave them.” 

Despite the look of disappointment that crosses Gon’s face, the look that disappears as quickly as it had come, he nods with a smile. “Sure. I can show the three of you around tomorrow morning.” 

Killua smiles appreciatively. “Thanks. And, uh… thanks for the cardboard.”

“No problem. Get some rest now, alright?” 

A hum, and they split ways—Killua enters back into the cell, and Gon stands, waiting for his entry and shutting of the door, before he walks down the hall, towards his room, Killua assumes. 

Gentle hands prop the cardboard against the window, leaning at a steep enough angle where it covers most of the glass without falling off—it’ll do unless he can find something better. Killua doesn’t want people snooping inside—doesn’t want people to try and get looks at Nanika, or Alluka, or the both of them.

He doesn’t want people to know whether they’re in the room or not. 

Slowly, Killua sets himself back into bed, beside Nanika, and intertwines their fingers once again. 

He shuts his eyes, and can finally fall asleep. 

Killua awakens to the sound of shuffling.

Shuffling, and mumbling, and lots of tumbling. 

His eyes snap open, and he scrambles up, arms propped against the bed. 

Alluka is up, along with Nanika, and she’s shuffling around the room, cleaning off the dust around the room with an old rag from god-knows-where. Nanika stands, watching her sister work, before noticing Killua’s awakened state, and she makes a gurgle of a sound. 

“ _Kih—Kiruah!”_

It sounds like a wheezing choke. 

The discordant sound makes Killua smile regardless.

Even if he feels a little disoriented. 

And Nanika is reaching out, nearly tripping as she trudges over to him, flopping on the bed without a single care. She’s not wearing her mask, and her eyes smile—scrunching up, mouth twitching upwards. She’s looking at him expectantly, and Killua’s eyes soften.

“ _Kiruah, pah—pat my...pat mah—my head…_ ” She stumbles over her words, though it doesn’t deter her in the slightest.

Tender eyes.

“Good morning, Nanika.” Killua brings his pale hands up, boney and calloused and frail, to run through her hair. He threads his fingers into her black locks, rubs the pads into her scalp soothingly. She leans more into his touch. 

Killua looks over at Alluka. “Good morning, Alluka.” 

Alluka looks over, wiping the sweat from her brow. “G’morning, brother. You slept a lot longer than usual.” 

He stiffens. “Huh?” 

“It’s been around three hours since Gon passed by to see if we were awake for breakfast. Which we weren’t, but the sound of the door opening woke me. You barely shifted, though.”

The guilt consumes him rapidly, and he looks down.

“Shit.” 

She frowns. “Don’t worry about it. I’m glad you were resting more than usual.” 

He wants to feel that way about it—to view his rest as something positive, but the only thing that runs through Killua’s mind is that if it _hadn’t_ been Gon, if it had been another person who was entering to kill them, they’d be dead. All because Killua didn’t wake up from his sleep. 

Alluka stands, staring at him. “Brother.”

A non-committal hum. 

“It’s okay to rest. And you taught me self defense, I can protect us.” 

Killua furrows his eyebrows. “That was years ago, Alluka. How much of that do you even remember?” 

“A lot. And when you get healthy, we can practice again.”

There’s a smile that forms on Killua’s lips—whether reminiscent of the memories, or of Alluka’s current disposition, he doesn’t know. “Like we used to?” 

She laughs, bright and airy and soft. “Yeah. So I can throw you over my shoulder again and win.” 

Killua snorts. “I think you’re remembering shit wrong.” 

“Nuh-uh! I am totally remembering these things right.” 

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Get your ass up, we’re getting breakfast.” 

Nanika pulls at Killua’s arm, face cocked to the side in question. And Killua can’t stifle the complete adoration that fills him when he gets a glimpse of her, lips parted and eyes wide—wondering what they’re going on and on about. In a moment of vulnerability, Killua lets his hands wander until they’re coming up to Nanika’s shoulders and pulling her close into his embrace. 

Until Nanika is struggling to return the hug through weak, trembling muscles that don’t coordinate with what she wants. 

It’s the thought that counts. 

The walk to the dining area with the kitchens is short. They’d learned their way there simply by watching their surroundings the first time around, trained by years on end of having to memorize paths to make it back to their shelter for the night, with little to no resources to eat. And Killua takes the time to wonder just _how much_ food they could possibly have to feed so many people. 

At least thirty people just indoors, not counting those loitering around either in the base or outside. 

This many people _have_ to pose a risk at some point, right? 

It can’t possibly be safe, or practical, to keep so many people in one location. 

Especially when food sources are short. 

There are several tables empty, and the conversation seems to still as they walk in. People stare, mainly at Nanika, whose mask is loosely tied on. She gurgles, shuffling closer to Killua, nervous by all the staring. No one hides their gawking. No one hides their distaste, either. 

Gon isn’t around—Killua doesn’t know where he’d be. 

Quickly, nimble hands work to serve himself canned corn and rice. Alluka puts lettuce and tomatoes with a side of corn and rice on her plate. They don’t take more than they need, careful with their portion servings. The conversations between people starts up again, voices low—as if trying to hear anything Killua or Alluka has to say. 

They take a seat at one of the empty tables. 

Nanika stands for a second, struggling to grasp where to seat herself, but she figures it out, sitting in-between Alluka and Killua with a noise akin to a laugh. Killua finds the sound endearing. He removes her mask, tugging the string until it falls untied, and gently takes the mask off to uncover her face.

“It must be stuffy with that on, isn’t it, Nanika?” 

Killua’s head whips up, and Gon is standing there, holding a plate of raw meat—cut thick and measured long enough to satiate her appetite. 

He takes a seat in front of them, sliding the plate to her and placing his own plate on the table. 

“Thought I’d join you guys for breakfast.” 

Alluka looks at him with a smile. “You waited?” 

He hums. 

Killua appreciates the sentiment. 

Because he’s sure Gon didn’t do it to just be hospitable. There has to be another reason. Maybe, to not leave them to just be stared at by refugees. Gon is watching him, watching him with careful eyes as Killua brings the wooden spoon up to his lips and takes a bite from the corn and rice mixed together. 

He watches, with a frown lacing his lips, as Killua places a bit of his food from his plate onto Alluka’s. 

Some habits are hard to break. 

Nanika is chewing on the raw meat Gon had brought her when Gon finally speaks up again. 

“I’ll be heading on another scavenge.” 

The entire room quietens, and some of the refugees turn their heads to listen—others nod their heads as they continue to eat. 

“Didn’t you just come back from a scavenge?” Killua asks, eyes not meeting his. 

“Yeah, but I didn’t really find anything resourceful. I was thinking of taking a trip south instead of north and looking in other areas.” 

Someone in the group stands, attention directed towards Gon. “You’re getting a little careless with supplies. We don’t need to keep hoarding.” 

Gon gives a low laugh. 

“Right,” Another person says, putting down their fork. “And you keep getting into trouble.”

He sticks his tongue out in embarrassment, rubbing the nape of his neck. “You know that Leorio and Kurapika are traveling right now. They won’t be back for a long time—I want to have supplies ready in case they need stuff.” 

Killua finds his body language percurliar. 

Form relaxed, eyes scrunched in a smile, a small huff of a laugh leaving his lips. He’s grinning despite himself, and he has one elbow propped against the table, holding his cheek in his palm. Killua can feel Gon’s feet sway underneath the table—he doesn’t even need to look to know he’s switching from swaying to interlocking his ankles. 

He’s nervous, even if he’s sitting straight and his shoulders are pulled back. There’s apprehension there. Of what, Killua doesn’t know. But there’s something there. 

For a moment, he wonders if it has to do with the spray-painting on the walls. 

There’s sweat trickling down Killua’s face. 

And his biceps, and his back. 

He’s taking in strainted huffs of oxygen, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth—slow and steady and in pure concentration. His eyes are shut, and he’s counting in his head the numbers—one-hundred-four… one-hundred-five… one-hundred-six. 

The cell is empty.

Alluka and Nanika are outside in the fields, as Alluka had told him—probably helping out with the washing of clothing. 

He’s not sure how many months it’s been. 

But it’s been a couple of months, and Killua has started to regain his strength. By a lot. The muscle begins to form again—what was once lost easily returning back with his dedication and persistence. The constant supply of meals help. It keeps his body from consuming his muscle to survive. 

Killua’s arms are no longer thin and frail, but instead thicker—filled with more mass. His biceps and triceps have slowly begun to retain their past appearance, the appearance they had when he was younger. He’s started to work on his hamstrings and abdomen too—pushing himself carefully, knowing his limits are fully within his grasp. 

When his vision swarms and spins and darkens, he knows it’s time to stop for the day.

Even if he doesn’t want to. 

Alluka chides him about that. 

There’s a knock at the door.

Killua opens his eyes, lowering himself on the bar he’d welded onto the ceiling and dropping onto the ground. Gon is walking in, grinning, holding a two-way radio. Absentmindedly, Killua wipes the sweat from his brow and relaxes his form, taking deep breaths to even himself out. 

With so much brimming happiness, Killua can only assume one thing. 

“Did you finally get it to work?” 

A rapid, repeated nod. Gon looks beyond ecstatic. 

“After two months of tampering with the thing—it _finally_ works!” 

Gon is coming inside, shutting the door with the back of his foot, walking up to Killua and leaning in close. He’s holding out the radio, extending his arm so Killua can take a look at it. It switches on with a static sound, noise crackling loudly. 

“Here.” 

Killua makes a face of confusion. “Huh?”

“I want you to have one. I gave one to Alluka too.”

“Seriously?”

Gon hums in affirmation. “Yeah. I’m giving one to two other members who hold down the camp while I’m out on scavenges. I’d give more out, but there’s only five. And with Nanika, I worry about you both not having a way to call for help or something.” 

Killua frowns. “We can protect ourselves fine.”

“Not what I meant.” Gon says, staring at Killua with a face that cracks a smile from him. “Now we’ll all be in contact in case something happens.”

A hum. 

“And just as a reference,” Gon says, taping the red button atop the radio, “This little button is the emergency button. Click it, and other talkies in the area will know something happened and the GPS will turn on!”

His voice sounds oddly cheery for something so morbid.

“When would we even need that?”

“Not sure, but, c’mon, let’s try it!”

Killua must be making a face of confusion, because Gon laughs outright, taking another walkie talkie from his back pocket, and showing it off to Killua. He opens the door, rushing outside—and Killua can hear him walking down the corridor, his heavy steps not going unheard. 

In his grasp, the two-way radio weighs heavy. There’s a static sound, before a click resonates loudly. 

Quiet giggling, barely capped down. “How are you?”

The two-way radio doesn’t do Gon’s voice justice.

It doesn’t capture the softness of his voice, like feathers hidden within pillows—like good news is always coming abound, festered with happiness and a childish lilt that seems to have never disappeared despite the circumstances. It doesn’t capture the playful friendliness of his voice. 

He pushes the unsolicited thought aside. 

“Oh, uh…” His voice cracks,—awkward and unaccustomed to talking over phones, must less walkie talkies. 

The radio clicks—signaling his end of the conversation.

“I’m assuming that’s not an _‘extraordinarily good’,_ ” Gon says, his voice coming through the line after an intermission of silence. There’s another laugh. “So what can I do to please you, sir?” 

Killua doesn’t even consider his words. 

He doesn’t think before he opens his mouth—a grin on his lips. “Some company will do. It’s kinda boring here, isn’t it?”

Another click. 

And there’s no response. 

Killua wonders if maybe he said something wrong—frowning to himself—before the door to the cell is opening, and Gon is stepping inside, silent, staring from the walkie talkie to Killua, and not speaking a word. 

His expression makes Killua laugh.

“Work out with me?” He asks, reaching up for the bar on the ceiling, signaling over to the makeshift weights at the corner of the room with his head. 

Gon nods, pocketing the radio. 

Not even the dim lighting of his cell can hide the flushed cheeks tinged a light shade of red.

“There’s not much raw meat left.” Is all Gon says one morning over breakfast. 

Killua looks up—pauses in his chewing to stare at Gon blankly. 

He puts down his spoon.

“In the kitchens?” 

Nanika is silently eating, hands gripping onto a smaller-portion-of-meat than usual. 

Gon nods. “There’s been a decline in wildlife around the area. I haven’t had a chance to find anything new to hunt. There’s still a month or so worth of meat left for her—if she continues to eat this portion size.” 

Killua’s hands feel just a little unsteady at the thought. 

Killua estimates it must’ve been six months in this camp. Six _months_ without worry, and just like that—Killua is back into a frenzy. His heart does a little kick up—where it pauses and drops and manages to resurface, falling into a steady beat once again. Just after a moment of intermission. Just after a moment of stillness. 

“Brother—” Alluka starts, looking up from her meal, setting down her spoon to grab Killua’s arm. 

“I’ll go hunting today,” Killua says. He pushes his plate aside. There’s still a little food left. “Is that alright?” 

He’s already standing, not waiting for Gon’s response. 

There’s a stumbling sound behind him, hurried steps walking over. Someone is grabbing his wrist tightly, thick fingers coiled around alabaster skin.

“Hold up.” Gon says, voice low. Killua lets his gaze shift, lets himself turn just a little, to expose his side profile to Gon. Feels Gon staring at him. 

Gon takes a deep breath. “I’ll go with you. Hunting, I mean.”

Killua arches an eyebrow. “You sure about that?” 

Another nod. “I know the forests better than you do. Just let me grab the equipment we need, and we can head out.” 

The sun is barely rising—just starting to—and painting the evergreen grass, lush and full of life, in beautiful orange hues. It takes a moment of consideration for Killua to sigh, relaxing his shoulders with a roll and fixing his posture. Breathe—chill out. His gaze falls onto Gon. 

“Alright.” Killua doesn’t know whether he’ll appreciate Gon’s company or not. “I’ll meet you at the gate?” 

“Yeah. Yeah. Just—get whatever you need from your room, and from the stash, and we can head out.” 

It’s been a long time since Killua has done anything remotely close to hunting. Six months going practically spoon-fed, and even more months before that struggling to find a single can of non-perishables to eat. 

There hadn’t been animals to hunt at all, and he wonders if he still has the technique down.

He runs through it in his head as he straps on the knife sheaths to his thighs, pockets the knives in there, too. He thinks about what’s going to be out to hunt—whether deer, or bear, moose. But if he has to settle for smaller game, then there’d better be a plethora of them somewhere. 

Regardless, anything is better than nothing. 

When Killua looks through the stash, he picks out a compound bow—heavy in his arms, but not tiring, and he loads on ten arrows. Hopefully, it’ll be enough. Gon is already at the gate, changed into something heavier: cargo pants and a short sleeve jacket covering his skin from the weeping winds. 

He’s holding a longbow. 

“You can hunt with _that_?” Killua asks, eyeing the bow suspiciously. 

There are several people who have paused to watch, whispering amongst themselves. Killua still hadn’t found his place in this camp—and he doesn’t think he ever will. Not with Nanika still by Alluka and his side. They watch, with peering eyes, as Gon smiles and nods enthusiastically, whipping out the radio to speak into it. 

“Open the gates. We’re heading out. Over.”

Almost automatically, there’s a response: “Got it, boss. Any idea when you’ll get back?” 

A thoughtful hum, and his finger hovers over the push-button, thumbing the antenna. Killua taps his foot impatiently as the gates slowly creak open. Gon’s head moves up towards the prison tower, where a figure stands, holding his own walkie talkie. 

“No idea. Probably won’t get back until we got something. Don’t wait up for me, Ikalgo.” 

The radio clicks. 

“Yeah.” 

Silence. 

They walk out, and faintly, Killua can feel the stares on his back. Even more prominently, he can feel Alluka’s gaze—and he knows it’s her staring, can practically feel her frown from where he is. He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t wave. He doesn’t acknowledge her. 

He knows this was a split-second decision. 

This could’ve waited until tomorrow, or until the day after—until they were more prepared. 

But every day that passes is another wasted. Another unguaranteed day. Another failure. 

He’s tired of failing. 

The forests are particularly grim. Dark and completely festered by overgrowth, they cover any chance of sunlight the further Killua and Gon travel into them. It’s quiet, save for the chilling wails of wind that push past outstretched branches, and Killua finds himself growing a little paranoid at the silence.

Every crunch in the earthy soil is a reminder of their physical presence, and a reminder that something _else_ may be lurking as well. 

They walk carefully, still and silent, listening in for any sign of an animal. 

Gon takes to observing the ground, deft fingers reaching around to finger around uncut grass and weeds, looking for faint tracks. Killua keeps his head up, eyes scanning the surrounding area to no avail. The sun is out, he _knows_ this, and yet, the forest is utterly black—as if day didn’t exist. 

Nearly three hours in—Killua only knows because Gon had muttered about it—with barely any words exchanged between them, Killua begins to feel the panic settle in again. Not a single animal in sight: no tracks, no signs, no sounds. It’s as if they’ve vanished from the world, with only vague textbook pictures to remember them by. 

Killua has begun to mutter swears under his breath, a gentle rise of voices in his thoughts—prodding around the depths of his mind.

_Nanika needs meat. She needs to eat, or else she’ll starve._

_His little sister will starve._

“Killua.” Gon says, turning to him. Blazing hazel bore holes into averted, quivering blue. 

Weakly, Killua brings his gaze up to meet Gon’s. 

“We’ll find something, it’s only been three hours.”

When the words don’t seem to quell his worries at all, Gon sighs, stopping completely and setting down his bow.

Calloused hands come up to grip Killua’s shoulders—to ground him. His fingers twist into the fabric of Killua’s shirt, and into the crevices of the pale skin atop collarbone.

“Listen to me. We’re in the season for off-spring, there’s bound to be something lurking about. Animals don’t just fall off the face of the earth, you know.” 

The words are meant to calm him. 

It works, a little. 

Killua takes a deep breath. He tries his best to calm the quivering of his hands, or the trembling of his lips. He focuses on calming himself—how did that breathing technique go again? It rings vaguely in his head as a distant memory. He realizes that it’s not going to come back to him any time soon.

And it’s as if God himself, whatever remains of him—whether fictional or not—hears his desperate pleas for help. The pleas he’d been repeated like a mantra in his head since they’d left the camp. A distant roar has Gon whipping his head up, quickly reaching for the longbow curled into the tendrils of lush, green grass. 

Killua reaches for the arrows on his back, faintly patting his hands on his thighs to make sure the knives are still there. 

“We don’t have any landmarks to know how to get back to the camp.” Killua whispers, inching closer to Gon. 

“We do.” Gon corrects. “I know how to get back. We need to sweep away any clutter once we find the animal.” 

Killua stares ahead as they walk. 

Carefully, inching closer, one painful step at a time. 

Killua’s thighs burn from holding position. From not moving. 

Gon is staring at a spot between two trees, eyes hard. 

His hand comes up, signaling to get Killua’s attention. And Killua looks over, heart stopping at the sight. 

There, surrounding a bear, stand five Screamers, muttering to themselves lowly—crazed and ugly and rotting. Their skin is a pale white, with protruding bones and exposed muscles from ripped flesh. One of them is missing their arm, another is missing its entire lower body. Tumorous bubbles in their skin, clothing shredded into near nothing and tainted with blood. 

Don’t speak.

Don’t speak. _Don’t speak._

_Don’t **fucking** move. _

They chatter—chatter and mumble and mutter and groan and shuffle their feet completely uncoordinatedly. And they’re staring at the bear, unmoving—calculating. The bear stares back, unperturbed, but all the while visibly rabid—angry and territorial and it lets out an angry roar that has the Screamers looking up—suddenly aware once again and giving out a piercing wail. 

The bear shrinks back. 

The Screamers come closer. The ones that can stand, lunge. 

And then Killua sees it. 

Eight feet tall, nearly the size of a tree. 

Killua can count the times he’s seen one of those on one hand. 

It stands still, doesn’t move a single inch, but its long, gaunting hands are moving slowly, fingers trembling and reaching out for the bear. 

Killua can feel the blood drain from his face _very_ quickly. 

Something is grabbing Killua’s hand—and he tenses, vision spinning as he goes into autopilot and nearly breaks the hand that was gripping onto him. But he registers the honey skin, and calms. 

“I’ll take out the big one. Can you take the five Screamers?” 

Killua’s lips tremble. 

The big one. That _thing_. The last time he’d seen it, it had wiped out half the camp he’d been staying at. Gripped onto other refugees and took a bite out of their skin—ravaged them until there was nothing. Until there wasn’t even clothing or bones or a scream to remember them by. It had almost gotten Alluka.

Gon’s voice is barely audible. “Killua?”

He swallows, loads the arrow into his compound bow. “Yeah. Yeah I got it.” 

A nod from Gon’s part, and he’s stringing in an arrow into his long bow. 

Killua is quick. He breathes in, and out, and hardens his gaze.

He tells himself this is for Nanika—because Nanika needs to eat. She needs to be able to have food. 

There’s a clear shooting lane. No clutter. It’s doable. He can do this.

Quick shots—one, two, three, four, five. He loads in arrow after arrow, nimble hands working quickly to reach behind him and pull another arrow strapped onto his back, and doesn’t miss a single shot. It hits each Screamer so fast that none of them have time to turn and react. 

Killua doesn’t hesitate to spare an extra arrow on the bear, hitting it cleanly in the head, where it drops onto the grassy ground, dead.

And Gon is taking care of the big one, stretching the bow back so far Killua is afraid it might snap instead. But his stare is nothing short of pure determination, and his eyes don’t blink once—hand coming off the arrow, and Killua watches as it goes flying into the air with a loud, whipping sound. 

It pierces the head of that thing with an audible crack. 

For a moment, Killua doesn’t think it worked, because it’s stepping forward, and its step makes the earth around them quiver in fear. The sky seems to darken even more than previously, and the air halts its breath. But then it’s dropping dead, a loud thump that makes the trees still and grass flatten —and Killua hesitantly lowers his bow. 

Gon holds his bow tightly, for more seconds than necessary, hand on his back in case he needs to pull another arrow, but it's unnecessary, and he lowers his hand after sighing, turning to Killua. 

“That went well.” He says lamely. 

Killua’s hands still shake from the exhilaration of it all. “ _Well_?” Killua stares at him incredulously, “That’s the first time I’ve seen someone kill one of those things without a problem.” 

Gon laughs, following Killua as he walks towards the corpses cautiously and pulls the arrows from their heads. Blood tints the tip of the weapon. 

“How did you even know where to hit the thing?” Killua asks, after a moment of silence. 

A hum. “There’s a soft spot at the side of their face. That’s the best place to strike from.”

Killua makes a sound of affirmation, thinking to himself. 

In the silence of it all, they mince the bear into pieces and cut it into as many slices as necessary, until it’s easier to carry around. Killua had unsheathed both knives from his thighs, handing one to Gon with a face of expectancy, and Gon had simply stared down at the knife, and then him before laughing out loud and taking the knife. 

By the time they’re done cutting, Killua is sweating—skin slick and wet from the rigorous work—and Gon looks no better. They stare at their handiwork before separating the skin from the meat and bone, skinning quickly, because it was always easier to separate the skin when the corpse was warm. And Gon works fast—like he’s done this many times before.

Killua is sure he has.

“Thanks.” Killua says, not looking up from the blanket spread out, hands soiled with blood and grime. “For, y’know, coming with me to hunt for Nanika.” 

Gon is speechless, and Killua can practically feel the wide eyes staring at him in shock, before he makes a noise of agreement. 

“I’m glad to have helped, Killua.” His words are soft. Uttered with something laced deeper within, and Killua is forced to keep his gaze on the blanket in fear that the expression Gon is making will be too much to bear. 

It’s common for Killua to awaken at six in the morning. 

To rise from his slumber—whether by force, panting harshly, or by opening his eyes slowly. 

It’s a thing he’s become accustomed to, between training with his parents before all this, and after having to scavenge for Nanika and Alluka after it all began. 

His parents. 

The Zoldyck Naval Refugee Camp. 

Mandated by the prestigious Zoldyck Family, where presumably no single refugee is allowed in. Not until Killua is found. 

He thinks about that often. 

Their selfishness, and insistence that he returns. 

Not a single soldier who hunted for him was ever concerned about Nanika or Alluka. Only him. It’s only ever _just_ been him. Irritation settles under his skin. 

Nanika and Alluka are still settled asleep—deep in a slumber Killua hopes they won’t awaken from for a while. 

The kitchens are empty at this time. Killua knows this after nearly a year at the camp. Comfortable, with no one looking for him. It’s nice. It’s _nice_ being safe—feeling safe and not feeling like he has to run. Like he has to take his sisters and find another ruined, run-down location to stay at after one night. 

Instead, he takes the early morning to work out. Because Gon had assigned him to teaching combat to refugees who could afford to fight in case of attacks from Screamers and hostile factions alike, and that took up most of his day now. 

Killua grins to himself as he pushes the knives into their sheaths, and pulls on his boots. 

He steps outside, closing the door behind him quietly. 

Despite the safety that the prison allows—just how long will it be before they find him here, too? Until they come marching down and destroy everything Gon has worked hard for? It would be all Killua’s fault too, if only he just—

“Something on your mind?”

Killua whips around. 

Gon is standing there, walking over from the end of the hall. 

A smile graces Killua’s lips. “Something is always on my mind.”

“Mmm, really?” 

Gentle, whispered laughs. 

“Yeah. You’ve known me long enough to know that.” 

They’re standing around outside Killua’s cell. 

“Care to let me get your mind off it, then?” 

Killua looks at him, eyebrow arched in question, because he doesn’t remember ever mentioning he was thinking something _negative_. But Gon has learned to be able to read his mind in the short amount of time he’d been at the camp, and he’d always jumped at the chance of filling in some conversation with Killua—no matter how irrelevant.

“I was studying to be a zoologist.” 

The revelation leaves Killua a little startled. 

“A zoologist.” He parrots. 

Gon hums. “I wanted to be like my dad, y’know, do something science-y. And I grew up on an island, loving animals and nature, so I thought it was fitting.”

Killua chokes on a laugh. “Somehow, the idea of you being an island boy is fitting.” 

A sound of indignation rips past Gon’s lips. “Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?” 

He doesn’t mean to snort—but Killua totally does. 

“Nothing, nothing!” He waves his hands in mock-surrender. 

Gon crosses his arms, pouting, before laughing, stifling a yawn with his hand. “So yeah, I was studying to be a zoologist. I was actually in my zoology class when all this stuff hit the fan.” 

“In high school?” 

A nod. 

Killua looks at him for a moment. Thinks what he’s about to do carefully. Because—Because he’s never really said something like what he’s about to say out loud. No one, absolutely no one, knows. But Gon cares. Killua wants to tell him. In the heat of it all, Killua is forced to avert his gaze. 

“Y’know…” Killua gives an awkward laugh. “I’ve never really told anyone this?” 

Gon pauses, looking at Killua—gaze shifting from light to serious, and it looks as if he’s soaking up every word he mumbles. 

“We were at school, too. When the virus broke out—Nanika, Alluka, and I, I mean.” 

Gon shifts closer. 

“Nanika got turned that very day.” A sharp intake of breath. “She didn’t even survive one day into this fucking mess. I don’t know—I just. I didn’t give up on her, y’know? She’s my little sister. I didn’t plan on just… leaving her. I was holding her in my arms when she turned.”

The shocked expression on Gon’s face makes the bags under his eyes far more prominent. Killua notices these little details.

“She didn’t harm me, but it was still a really rough thing to go through. Alluka had sat on the bed of a house we found and cried because she was convinced I was going to get bit, too.” 

It takes just a second for Killua to realize how morbid the conversation had gotten. 

He rubs at his nape, ruffling his own hair. 

“Sorry. Didn’t mean for this to get depressing.” 

Gon frantically waves his hand. “No it’s—” He yawns, before freezing. “I’m so sorry, I just got off patrol—sorry, that’s so rude.” 

Killua snorts. 

“You’re just about the only person I’ve met who gives a shit about manners still.” 

Gon shares his laugh, too.

They’re close—their bodies. Close, just within a hands reach. Killua notes this much.

And when Gon presses his forehead against Killua’s chest and whines petulantly, like a child who hasn’t gotten enough sleep, it’s like Killua has eaten a portion of rice too big, struggling to swallow it all down—or maybe, it’s like Killua hasn’t drank water in days, like he’s still out in the cityscape and searching for a haven, because his tongue feels heavy and just a little uncoordinated. 

He stifles a laugh. 

And his fingers itch to caress Gon’s hair—to thread through the thick, sky-bound tufts of hair.

“You’re endearing when you’re half-asleep.” 

The words tumble uselessly out of his mouth before he really thinks about it. 

They fall past his lips and hang in the air, and Killua can feel Gon freeze against him. 

He looks up at Killua, before averting his eyes, ears tinted just slightly red, cheeks speckled in red—embarrassed. And Killua can feel the tension; the way neither of them say another for a few seconds. Stunned into speechlessness. Breaths baited and held in waiting. 

Killua looks down at Gon and smiles—he ignores the words that had stumbled out of his own mouth. “Next time, tell me when to patrol. I’ll take over the shift for you.” 

Gon’s eyes meet his, finally. His gaze turns just a little serious, where his eyes do that _thing_ , where they darken, and his eyebrows furrow, creating a crease in his honey skin. “Killua, you do combat training for the refugees. I couldn’t ask you to—” 

He waves his hands to shush Gon. “Calling it combat training is a stretch, don’t you think?” 

They share a laugh. 

“Well then, what would you call it?” 

Eyes looking up to the ceiling in thought—Killua pretends to ponder for a moment, before focusing on Gon again. 

After a moment of silence, he speaks. “I’d call it _get-your-ass-to-bed-dumbass_. You’re, like, swaying.” 

A snort, followed by a yawn. “Yeah, yeah.” 

Killua hums, stepping aside and staring at Gon expectantly. Gon makes a sound akin to a groan. 

“C’mon—how the hell are you the leader of this place, seriously?” 

He huffs. “Killua, you’ve been here for a year.” 

“Yeah, and I still wonder how your stupid self is managing this place.” For emphasis, Killua pushes his thumb against Gon’s forehead. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sleep in that room longer than five hours.”

His hand comes up to Gon’s shoulder, rests there for a few seconds as they take their final strides to Gon’s door. And Gon is standing in front of his cell door, slowly opening it, feet shuffling against the floor loudly—exhaustion clearly seeping into his bones. 

Even then, with the small, tired smile that Gon gives him, turning around to bid him goodbye—Killua’s hand lifting away and off his shoulder—he can still feel the warmth of Gon’s skin under the palm of his hand.

The day treads slowly after that. 

Today’s lessons—if you could call them that—were long and grueling and tiring, more-so than usual, with Killua instructing over a dozen healthy refugees on techniques for defense. Holding a gun, working with a sharp knife, close-range combat: it’s an endless list of things he drills through. 

Most impressive is their reaction, when Killua hands the knife to a somewhat disobedient refugee, one who’s new to his ‘classes’—hot-headed and ill-tempered—and instructs the man to attack him full force, head-on. 

He uses them as a dummy. An example for the rest. 

With one swift movement, he’s pushing the arm which comes swinging with the knife—obvious and wound behind him to attack—away, hands twisting under the arm to quickly disarm the man in what should be a slicing cut to his forearm. 

There’s no cut, no blood. 

The others stare in awe. 

Killua huffs, squinting in the beating sun outside. It heats his skin annoyingly, colors it red and makes him sweat. After hours of repetition outside under the scrutinizing gaze of the sun, Killua is finally able to end the class on a positive note, encouraging those who are most eager to reach out to him if there are any questions.

Although he knows they won’t—most, anyway. 

Not with the whispers still ongoing over Nanika, even if she’s proven herself innocent countless times. It’s not enough for them. Her condition is just the right amount for her to be cast out, as usual. It’s enough for people to discard her, even if she retains some notion of normality. 

Killua _will_ cure her.

Killua is convinced there’s a cure.

The door shuts behind him with a loud slam.

And the corridor is empty, with darkness reaching from its corners—spreading out into the middle of the hall like snaking hands. A light extends from the end of the hall and does its best to reach what these expired bulbs cannot—but Killua walks silently pat each and every door, and hears laughter inside some, talking in others. 

He walks, until he catches the familiar sight of his door, set apart by others, where crayon drawings are scratched onto the door and walls, and the cardboard fixed onto their window has Alluka’s handwriting. It reads:

 _“Killua, Alluka and Nanika’s Room”_ with a big smiley face and hearts all over. 

Steps continue to resound, nearly inaudible, as Killua nears his destination. Gon’s room. Because he had been sleeping all day—since he saw him in the early morning—and Killua had skipped breakfast to offer to grab breakfast with Gon when he awoke instead. 

But the closer he gets, the louder a voice inside Gon’s room gets. 

“I don’t understand, are you feeling sick?” 

The smile off Killua’s face slips off, and he slows—heartbeat halting for a second. He presses close to the wall, back against the cold concrete as he leans in a little. He shouldn’t be doing this, but—Gon isn’t a very telling person. He doesn’t tell people what’s on his mind. Killua has learned this after a very long time here.

There’s silence, before Killua hears Gon’s voice. 

Killua risks a glance inside, looking through the window, where the familiar green material has been pushed just a little. 

He recognizes the figure in front of Gon. 

“No…” Gon’s voice trails off. “No, that’s not it.” 

“What is it then?” The voice speaking inside grows a little less restrained. “Explain it to me, because I really don’t get it!”

When no reply comes, the voice speaks again, softer—less emotional. “I’m just worried about you, Gon.” 

“I just,” He averts his gaze—Killua can tell from the way he turns his head away a little, rubbing his arm uncomfortably. “I’m fine, I just—I don’t. I don’t want to have sex right now, Ikalgo.”

The words leave a foul taste in Killua’s mouth. He’s left wincing, furrowing his eyebrows as he turns his head away only to promptly look back inside because—

—Gon’s body language is different from usual. It’s smaller, less confident and more uneasy. It’s shrunk back, shoulders tensed up and head looking down at the floor. It’s different from the Gon Killua is used to seeing. It’s not Gon, who has his head up always, grinning wide, voice strong and posture straight. 

This Gon is frail. 

And Killua worries that Ikalgo, who seems to be so loud about doing _that_ with Gon, will try and force him into something. Even if Ikalgo was nice, and always acknowledged his presence with a smile, Killua stood ready, hands reaching for the knives strapped onto his thighs. 

There’s a sigh inside. 

“Look, Gon,” He starts, voice softer. Killua has to strain to hear. “That’s okay, that’s not what I care about. I won’t ever force you to do something like that. I’m just worried about you.” 

“I know.” 

After a beat of silence, Ikalgo speaks up again.

“Do you…” His voice trails off. “Do you just want to hang out? Like, really. Just hang out.”

Gon’s voice is low, but Killua watches him nod, posturing straightening just a bit. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s fine.” 

Killua hightails out of there, turning on his heel quickly on quiet steps, movement light as he walks to the end of the corridor from where he came. He can—He can grab breakfast himself. That isn’t important to him. But Gon’s words leave Killua’s heart a little heavy, and he’s not completely sure why.

Although, he thinks there’s an explanation he’s not all too keen on accepting, teetering at the edge of his heart—worming its way in and making its home. 

Night is a different experience for Killua every time.

Because night is many things. Night is danger, it’s mysterious, it’s uncertainty and hidden figures and death. But it can also be calm: lulling you into a short, unmoving slumber. Killua rarely experiences those. He struggles to find comfort in sleep, sometimes. 

More recently than ever. 

His heart feels a little heavy, his thoughts replaying the conversation he’d overheard with Gon and Ikalgo. 

The prospect of sex, the notion that this wasn’t the _first_ proposition. Not the first time—it leaves Killua winded. 

For several reasons. 

He certainly wasn’t expecting Gon to be involved with another man. Even if whatever conversation they’d had had turned into something on the edge of teasing. Killua was well aware of it, even if he didn’t want to admit it. Because admitting it meant making space in his heart for another—making space for another who may die at the hands of the undead, and _that…_ that was a concept that would certainly destroy Killua. 

Pale complexion, rotting skin, low groans flash in Killua’s mind. 

The ideas fill his mind sporadically, like a fire alarm warning during the school fire drills he remembers. He thinks of Gon’s form, hunched and missing skin or limbs, mumbling about Killua’s betrayal, about Killua leaving him for dead—before a piercing wail attracts a rotted Alluka and Nanika. 

His lips tremble. 

Killua doesn’t want to think of this. 

Sweat lines his forehead. Dampens the back of his neck. 

_Don’t think—Don’t think of this, not of this._

Alluka is lying beside him, resting peacefully and blissfully unaware of Killua’s turmoil. She rests easy, and for that, Killua is glad. Nanika sleeps with her eyes shut, holding Alluka and Killua’s hand, face cleaned of grime, hoodie off her thin form in case she got hot and was unable to articulate it. 

Killua turns his gaze away and shuts his eyes. 

He tries to get some rest. 

He needs to rest. 

He offered to help Gon on patrols—and if he didn’t come to him concerning that soon, Killua would force him to rest and take over himself—leadership position be damned. 

_Finally._

Killua can feel the room begin to warp. 

The floor shifts, and the room spins. He feels sleep finally give him its hand, cold and gentle all in one. He feels himself slipping, falling softly and body sinking further and further. This—This is what he yearned for. Rest, after such a long day of work. 

Just as slowly as it had come, it goes. When Killua feels himself finally relaxed, he hears someone call his name. It calls once, then twice. 

It’s soft, and gentle, and Killua pulls himself up, looking around the room, eyes wide as he searches. 

A figment of his imagination? Could it be so cruel? 

“Killua.” A choked sob. 

Static. 

Killua recognizes the voice as Gon’s. Broken up and choked and damaged, but it’s still _Gon’s_. Behind the radio line of the walkie-talkie. He scrambles up as quickly as he can, carefully to not stir Nanika or Alluka. His hand reaches for the cold piece of plastic, thumbing the antenna anxiously as he clicks the button.

“Gon?” 

The seconds drift into many. 

Anxiety claws within Killua. 

His heart is running at unknown speeds. He’s never—He’s never felt this anxious, not since… not since Nanika turned. Not since they were almost hunted and killed. Not since the Zoldycks nearly found him at the old camp. He tries again, to call out for Gon. He hopes the voice was just a figment of his imagination.

“Are you okay? Gon?” Killua’s voice is laced with worry.

There’s no answer to the call of his name. 

Killua is moving quicker than he ever has before—rushing off his bed and barely having the decency to shrug on his shirt. It’s half on when he swings open his door, passing the all-too-familiar doors until he reaches Gon’s just five rooms over. If it was a figment of his imagination, that’s fine. But what if—What if, _what if..._

He doesn’t even bother knocking. The curtain is drawn shut, covering anything Killua might be able to see. Carefully, Killua turns the knob. The door creaks open. 

There, on his bed, Gon is curled up, sheets strewn off off the bed, possibly kicked off in a flurry of motions, and he’s gripping his chest, panting, sweat covering his face and he’s crying quietly, clawing at the fabric and the sheets. Ugly, fat tears roll down his cheeks, and Gon is taking the pillow to stuff his face into it—to silence a wailing cry.

Killua’s never seen him like _this_. 

The door shuts behind him, Killua pushing it with the heel of his foot, walking to Gon in long strides.

He does what he’s always done—instincts practiced and honed after years of looking after his little sisters. Even if it’s just a bit awkward when it’s Gon’s form he’s taking into his arms. Even if it’s weird to hold honey skin, dusted in freckles and scars, instead of the pale, cool-toned color of his sister’s. 

Gon rests his head against Killua’s chest—fevered forehead meeting cold cloth. 

“I didn’t—” His voice breaks, and he swallows thickly. “I didn’t know who to go to—so I, I just. I called you.”

It occurs to Killua, like a missing piece to a large puzzle being found under the table, that perhaps this is the reason Gon was tired. 

That _this_ was perhaps the reason that Gon sported heavy bags under his eyes as the days progressed, and walked around with a tired smile to reassure the children and women. That _this_ was the reason he carried spray cans to graffiti the walls on scavenges, and always seemed to stare out towards the gate in waiting. As if someone would show up. 

“I hope, I hope that’s fine.” Gon’s voice is wrecked, utterly wrecked. 

Killua nods, hand coming up to run soothingly through his hair, slowly, making sure Gon isn’t uncomfortable or shrinking away from his touch. He notes that his hair is unkempt and growing longer. Gon hasn’t cut it in a while. Killua redirects his attention.

“That’s fine.” Killua’s own voice is laced with sleep. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

After a moment of hesitation, Gon’s head shakes against his chest. 

Killua hums. “That’s fine. Do you want to sleep, then?” 

A slow nod. 

He goes to stand—to leave back to his room. Because Gon needs to rest, and he’s calmed down, but as soon as he’s pushing off the bed, hands are shooting out and grasping his chest, reaching from behind to pull on his broad form. Gon stuffs his face in the space between Killua’s shoulder blades. 

It’s a struggle to swallow, with Gon’s forehead presses into his spine, fingers clutching the front of his shirt. He feels short of breath.

The words feel clogged in his throat. “Do you want me to stay?” 

Another nod. 

Slowly, Killua turns, until he’s facing Gon, and staring at his red eyes, and tinted cheeks and nose, and he nods, with a small smile. Pale fingers are reaching out, grasping the discarded comforter and pulling back onto the bed. Gon doesn’t touch him again, but he shifts back, quietly rearranging the pillows straight; the slouch of his shoulders speaks volumes. 

His shoulders are tense, knuckles white, body rigid. It’s a sad sight. And Killua _doesn’t_ pity him, because he can understand. He can understand the nightmares—the exhaustion that wants to seep into his bones, and yet is unable to. In the darkness of it all, Killua lays next to Gon, just a few feet apart. 

His thoughts wander.

It’s the first time Killua is in Gon’s room—and staying the night. 

It’s the first time he’s leaving Nanika and Alluka alone in their room, unsupervised and unprotected.

But they’re capable of taking care of themselves, right? The rational part of his mind argues with the irrational, paranoid part. 

Are they safe? Are Nanika and Alluka truly safe here?

Gon’s form keeps shifting, hands switching positions, legs pressing together and then moving away. He keeps rearranging himself on his pillow. He isn’t comfortable. He’s anxious, and restless, and a soft, irritated huff—or was it a whine?—falls from his lips before Killua is speaking out to him.

“Gon.” Killua’s voice is low and firm. Gon beside him stills. “C’mere. You’ll never fall asleep like that.” 

He’s pulling on Gon’s waist, fingers dipping into the supple skin—exposed by the riding up of his own shirt. And in this exchange of movement, Gon is turning, until he’s facing Killua, arms hesitantly coming up to wrap around Killua’s neck, fingers tangling themselves in his white tufts of hair. 

Gon seeked another body.

Killua thinks of Ikalgo. Of the stout man's arrangement with Gon—whatever they have, or _had_. 

And he carefully lets one hand touch his waist, before resting it there. 

Gon mumbles something incoherent, a soft smile splaying across his face.

He decides with a sound mind, calm on the feeling on Gon’s forehead pressed into his chest, that Nanika and Alluka are safe here. 

They’re done running. 

Killua awakens to the most rest he’s gotten in a _long_ time. 

He awakens in a quiet room, just a little disoriented, and with a body pressed into his own—legs tangled together and one hand entwined with another person’s. 

It takes a moment to register that his fingers are intertwined with Gon's. That it’s Gon’s body just mere inches from his lips, with the strands of uneven, prickly hair grazing and tickling his chin. He’s sleeping, dark eyelashes fanning and dusting the high cheekbones, lips parted just a bit. 

Killua is endeared. 

And he watches, hand beneath him entwined with Gon’s, the other still wrapped around his waist—and he’s pressed even closer than Killua remembers him being. They’re nearly smushed together, and usually Killua finds this type of thing unbearable and suffocating—but with Gon, it’s not. 

The seconds pass. 

There are voices outside, and they grow and fade—steps resounding and rescinding. People are awake, and Killua is here, in Gon’s dark room, holding him close. Like they’re—Like they’re _lovers_ or something. 

_Lovers_. 

Killua has never had one of those. 

He’s never had a boyfriend. He’s never had _time_ for that sort of thing—and these times just made it all the more hard.

But even then, as Killua watches Gon’s sleeping face, taking even breaths instead of the winded, shuddered ones from last night, he thinks he wouldn’t mind being Gon’s lover.

Not at all. 

His heart seems to have made a space for the stupid, smile-y leader of a far-too-large camp. Even if he didn’t want that. 

And _that’s_ what is scary. 

“Are you sure, brother?”

“Don’t worry Alluka. I’ll be fine. Take care of Nanika while I’m gone, okay?”

Despite Alluka’s initial words of encouragement a week prior, now—as he stands by the gate with Gon—her eyes hold apprehension and fear. Nanika stands, unsure of what’s happening. She looks between Alluka and Killua, staring up at Killua when he comes close to hug her. 

“It takes three days to reach the supermarket.” Gon says, looking at Alluka. “We should be back within a week.” 

Alluka’s eyes harbour an unplaceable emotion—flickering through several before settling. She sighs. “I know, I’m just worried.” 

“We’ll be fine.” Killua says, looking up from Nanika, hands holding her cheeks and playing with them, kissing her forehead. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

He takes Alluka’s hand in his own. “You know the walkie-talkies won’t work once we’re a day’s walk in.” 

Her lips tremble. “Only a day?” 

“It’s only going to work for thirty miles. Maybe a little more since there’s not really any other radio waves to interfere. I don’t know.” 

Eyebrows pinching in worry, she nods, and exhales. “Alright. Be safe. Please. You know it’s dangerous for _you_ specifically. If you see anyone who works for our parents, run.” 

Killua gives her his best smile. “It’ll be a quick scavenge. We’re going in to check for supplies, and then we’re coming back. I’ll look for something for both you and Nanika.” 

When Killua pulls away from Alluka’s hold, steps closer to Gon and to the open gate, Nanika takes a step forward to follow, only to be stopped by Alluka’s gentle hand taking her own. 

“ _Kiruah.”_

It’s the first time he’s heard his name spoken so clearly from her lips. 

“ _Kiruah, weh—where… where are yuh—you going?_ ” Her hands are reaching out for Killua, trembling, and she tries to take another shaky step forward. 

Killua’s glad the mask is on, or else seeing her face might destroy any remaining determination to join Gon on this. 

Carefully, quickly, Killua is stepping close to her again, taking her hands in his. “Big brother will be back soon, okay Nanika? Alluka is staying with you while I’m gone, alright?” 

For a moment, her fingers tighten within his and hold him tighter. 

“ _Oh—Ohkay._ ” 

The words and the actions conflict.

It hurts Killua just as much as it hurts her. 

He lets go of her hand, walking back to Gon, but his figure is walking past Killua, and Killua watches as Gon crouches down just a little—bends his knees so he’s a little at eye-level with Nanika’s pale form. He’s smiling at her, all soft and gentle, and his hand comes slowly to her head, smoothing out the few stray strands of hair. 

“Nanika,” he says softly, tucking a small strand of her hair behind her ear. “I’ll bring back your big brother alright.” 

She’s silent for a second, before she nods, hands by her side, unmoving. Killua’s sure if her mask was off, they’d see her smiling.

“ _Ohkay. Tah—Take care uh—of him.”_

The smile on his face widens. “I will.” The statement is final. 

Gon turns to Killua, walking to him.

Killua swallows. “Let’s head out.” 

Hazel eyes look at him before nodding. Gon clicks the walkie-talkie. 

“Knuckle and Shoot are in charge of holding things down while I’m gone. Ikalgo, you’re not letting anyone into the camp unless it’s you-know-who.”

A click.

“Got it, boss. Be safe.” 

Killua still doesn’t know who _you-know-who_ is. But he assumes he knows who it might be. His eyes travel to the spray cans situation in the empty back-pack on Gon’s back. Nearly empty, barely sputtering paint—holding onto life like a lifeline, just like them. 

They head out.

Thirty minutes into walking in silence, Gon speaks.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you to come. That must’ve been hard.”

Killua looks over at him. “We've been together for a long time now. Even before all this shit happened.” Killua snorts, reminiscing at the fond memories he’s tucked away at the corners of his mind. “Nanika used to call us peas-in-a-pod.” 

A smile laces Gon’s lips. “Really?” 

He nods. “We were inseparable. My favorite little sisters.” He gives a dreamy sigh. “But don’t worry about that. You needed help, and they need to get used to me not being around, I guess.” 

Shock colors Gon’s features. “This is a new development.” 

They pass so many trees and leaves on the path out of the prison. 

Killua hums in question.

“Didn’t think you’d be for them being without you.” 

“I’m not—not really. But I trust the camp. We’ve been here for a year and nothing has happened. I can have a little faith in these refugees, right?” 

They share a laugh. 

And the following two days progress just like that. 

Small talk, and banter. A shove here, a touch there. Brushing shoulders that leave Gon a little red and make Killua laugh aloud. They sleep in whatever places they can find. Sometimes in houses—those become more common as they reach the rural town where the supermarket is. They share one bed even if there’s more than one, even if there’s a couch somewhere else.

Gon’s presence, body pressed against his, is a comforting notion.

And as they get closer, Killua notices something:

There’s no one around. Not a single Screamer. Killua’s eyes scan carefully as they walk further into the town. _Alcombey_. That’s what the sign had read down the road an hour ago. Just twenty miles more. Twenty miles more, and they’d be in front of a supermarket, hopefully with food to raid. 

Killua’s not even excited about the food, he just wants to get back and change out of this _fucking_ outfit. The turtleneck sticks uncomfortably to his skin, and the cargo pants don’t help either. But more skin covered meant less chances of getting bit or scratched and undoubtedly turning, and so Killua would rather take precautions and forsake his comfort.

“Look, it’s right there!” Gon’s voice is low, form hunched into a squat as they stare at the road from behind a crumbling building. 

Nothing. 

It’s completely deserted. 

There are crumbled buildings, exploded shards of glass on the ground—shining brightly when the sun hits them just the right way. Collapsed walls and rotten foundations. Broken-into doors, with the locks shot and knobs kicked off. Debris and litter, faded papers. 

A ghost town. 

“It’s safe, we can go in.” Gon says, eyes darting back and forth down the street just once more, before he nods to himself.

They stand, and quickly scurry to the supermarket—which is not at all true to its name. 

It’s more like a regular market. Small and humble in size, with another three stories above it, connected to the roof by a ladder. It doesn’t look too big from the outside, and the automatic doors are stuck on open, so it’s not hard getting inside to steal—but more importantly, anything can get in, and anything can get out. 

Gon is already taking out the spray paints from his bag, shaking one of the cans quickly as they step inside carefully. Nothing. Killua sighs in relief. His hands quiver with an itch to grab the knives on his thighs. 

“We need packets of seeds and any non-perishables you can find.” He pauses as he tags the wall.

_Mito, vete pa riba. Where Ging is._

He can’t read the words. Those two names pop up again. He doesn’t ask.

“Like,” Gon starts again, picking up where he left off. “If you find canned corn, or beans—those are good.” 

Killua laughs. “Alright, _honey_ , need anything else from the store?” 

And Gon certainly isn’t isn’t expecting the teasing words or lilt to his voice—because his face flushes, and despite the red tinting his cheeks he smiles. “Shut it. Go look for food.” 

A mock salute, with Killua bringing his hand up to his forehead in military style, posture rigid. “Right on, boss.”

Gon takes a crumpled piece of paper on the floor and tosses it at Killua. He dodges with a snort, and sets off into the aisles carefully, steps slow and quiet as he looks. The mood grows somber again—and Killua can hear Gon shuffling the cans away into his bag. 

If he isn’t careful, he may miss a Screamer lunging at him. One that they didn’t see from the outside of the store. 

Most of the shelves are empty. 

Nothing is left.

Old, molded price tags on display— _Two dollar discount with the special. Buy one get another free!_ There’s an aisle that reads canned vegetables and dry beans. It’s empty, too. The aisle just one over is supposed to have canned meats and soups, and Killua is only able to find two cans of soup and a single bag of crackers discarded on the floor—stepped on and nearly grained into tiny, uneatable pieces. He puts it in his bag anyway.

It continues on like that. He tries the cleaner aisles, in hopes to find something akin to feminine hygiene, and aisle six is _supposed_ to have baby food and diapers, but there’s none of that either. Killua worries for the newborn baby at the camp. He finds a single formula of milk, expired. 

He walks through everything twice, maybe even three times—Killua loses count after he treads through aisle ten a second time, loops around and paces it while he looks at what’s in the pharmacy section. No medications, nothing even over the counter, and hopping inside to the prescribed counter shows that most formulas aren’t even made, so there’s not much he can do.

Killua decides its wisest to just wait for Gon out front. 

He doesn’t even need to wait long. Once Gon hears his footsteps, he’s poking his head out from inside the manager's office. Killua frowns. 

“What were you doing in there?” 

“Just checking records and stuff. Was hoping maybe there’d be a paper detailing stocks and whether it was in another part of the store.”

Killua hums. “Well, then, find everything you need, baby?” 

The baiting voice is back, meant to fluster Gon indefinitely so and poke fun at their situation. At the supermarket, shopping for food—the prospect of it makes Killua want to laugh. Maybe if the world hadn’t gone to shit, they would have crossed paths later, and that _could’ve_ been them. 

This time, it’s Gon’s turn to retort. “You won’t believe the absurdity, _corazón_ , the prices were atrocious. I didn’t buy a single thing.” 

Killua understands it as: There wasn’t a single thing to take in the storage room. But even then, the way Gon’s voice pitches, the way it changes and shifts into something _more_ leaves Killua winded and flushing, and unable to even formulate a response to combat his sentence. 

“But,” Gon says, shuffling around in the back pocket of his cargo pants, makes a noise of happiness when his fingers graze a box. “I found a pack of dominos!” 

A deadpan expression falls upon Killua’s face rather quickly. 

“Seriously?” 

“Yes, seriously! Do you know how long I’ve been craving to play this game?” 

“I don’t even know what Dominos is. How the hell do you play that?”

Gon gasps, looking the most offended Killua has ever seen him, hazel eyes wide—even if it’s in jest. “You _don’t_ know how to play Dominos? Oh, we’re definitely playing that when we get back. ASAP.” 

Killua snorts. “Well, I really don’t plan on losing, I hope you know that.” 

Gon smiles wide, walking up to Killua, before a blood-curdling scream has them both snapping their head to the front entrance of the shop. 

Killua’s heart lurches in his chest—stops and restarts and pumps his blood faster.

Oh _God_. 

_Screamers._

_There are so many Screamers._

Dozens of them, suddenly snapping their head in the direction of the scream, stumbling quickly—some running—towards the open doors. More piercing wails, mumbling of past lives before more, and more, and more—more, more, more. They scream, until it sounds like echoes to Killua’s ears. Except he knows it’s not just echoes. Those are all Screamers realizing that there are humans nearby. 

The one closest to the door is stumbling towards Gon, rushing quickly, lunging, and Killua panics, watching as Gon’s eyes darken considerably, form tensing, expression hardening. And Killua is adjusting to the change fast, moving to push Gon out of the way, hands coming down to his knives and undoing the felt latch, unsheathing them. 

_Don’t slow down_. _Move._

With precise, practiced motions, Killua’s knife is coming down and piercing the skull of the Screamer. And it stops this one, but not the others, who are tumbling to get in through the door, coming from all directions and groaning and screaming and Killua feels the anxiety within him spike. 

He doesn’t want to die here. 

Not here. 

Alluka and Nanika won’t know what happened.

Or, or, worse. They’ll come looking for him, and see him turned. They’ll see him, gone mentally. Maybe physically, too.

Gon is grabbing Killua’s wrist, and it’s a bruising grip, tight and shaking and nervous, and he’s tugging Killua with him, running to the back of the store quickly. He tries the door. It’s locked. Killua feels a nervous laugh bubble out of him, incredulous and panicked and overthinking. Gon shakes the knob.

The wails and screams are getting closer. Killua can hear stumbling and muttering. His lips tremble. 

They only have close-range weapons. Nothing safe enough to use with so many Screamers. Nothing that could defend against the dozens. Killua’s heart is sinking when one Screamer rounds the corner and notices him. Instinctively, he bears his knife, but it’s not going to do much. 

The thing screams. 

More stumbling, and re-activated cries. 

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

“Gon…” 

“I’ve got this.” His voice is rough, laced with a small trace of panic. 

It’s stumbling towards them, struggling to reach them with one damaged foot. 

Killua is pressing his back into Gon’s, ready to attack. His knife is pointed up and out, angled at an easy enough position to maneuver, thumb digging into the handle. 

“Kick it!” Killua hisses.

“The door knob?”

“Yes!” 

Gon leans back, pushing back on Killua, and brings his foot up, pressing it against the wooden door before flexing his thighs and _pushing_. And right as seven Screamers round another corner, making their way to them, screaming, the door cracks, and splinters fall as it crumbles under the pressure. 

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon!” Gon grabs Killua’s wrist again, and _tugs_. “Shut the door!” 

The adrenaline is pumping through Killua like a drug. It stifles his breath and steals his heartbeat—accelerates his blood flow and leaves his fingers trembling from it all. He barely manages to shut the door behind them, although it’s not like it’ll do much—with the doorknob crushed in, all the Screamers have to do is push.

 _And push they can_. 

_They’re plenty capable._

Killua has learned this. 

They’re both stumbling up the stairs in a flurry, one step in front of the other, up, and up, and up. There’s nowhere to go except up, and Killua is _scared_. Scared, because once they reach the rooftop, where do they go from there? Gon is pushing the door to the roof right as the Screamers shove open the door at the bottom of the steps. 

_They’re moving so fast._

The light from the sunset hits his face, blinds him and forces him to adjust his eyes. 

Killua feels his heart drop.

 _Fuck_. 

There’s nowhere to go. They’re on a rooftop, with nowhere to go—to jump, or hide, or evade—and the Screamers are _coming_. Killua can hear the familiar groans, and outside, once the cold air is no longer whipping loudly in his ear, Killua can hear the wailing cries of Screamers down below and meters from the supermarket.

Gon is rushing, peering at the edge of the roof to look down, and he stumbles back, swearing under his breath. 

“Killua—” Gon starts, turning to stare at him with wide eyes. “Look.” 

Carefully, Killua is walking forward, leaning over the edge. 

“Holy _shit—”_

There’s more than dozens. There has to be more than one-hundred. Definitely more. Killua’s heart speeds up. Fuck, fuck, fuck. _Shit_. The Screamers down below are crying loudly, some in agony, others in set-off reactions. They stare up at the building, searching. Looking. 

“We need to jump.”

Killua’s eyes nearly double in size. “Jump?” 

Gon is looking at him, eyes set hard. He repeats himself. “We need to jump.”

There’s pushing at the rooftop door. 

Killua tenses.

“There’s nowhere _to jump_ , Gon.”

“There!” He’s pointing at the building over, separated by an alley. “We can make that jump and stay there. They can’t get us.”

His vision swims—it spins and darkens and he feels light on his feet. 

“Are you _crazy_? We won’t make that jump. There’s not enough momentum.” 

More pounding, louder cries. 

“Killua, we don’t have time to argue. I’ll go first to prove it’s safe.” 

The oxygen escapes his lungs. Gon, jumping. His fingers tremble. Killua finds himself lost at the prospect of it all. Gon is going to make the jump. What if he falls? What if he doesn’t make the jump, and he falls to the bottom—and, and…

Gon doesn’t even give him a chance to reason. He’s strapping the backpack on tighter, using the clip strands on the arms to strap it to his chest, and then he’s walking back, muttering to himself. One step, maybe one more, back. Further back. He’s counting in his head, and then he’s running off.

Killua hears his footsteps against the roof tar before he sees Gon jumping over the ledge.

His heart stops at his throat. 

Gon’s form is flying, and he can hear the eruption of cries from the Screamers, all who watch him cast a shadow over their heads. He makes it onto the other roof without a problem. Killua feels himself begin to sweat. Gon turns and is staring at him, ushering him with his hands—making wild motions for him to hurry up and jump. 

His knees feel weak. 

The pounding at the door unhinges the metal lock. 

Gon must see the dead rise from the darkness of the stairs before Killua does. 

“Killua, jump!” 

He swallows. 

For Nanika and Alluka. This is for them. He can make it for them. For them, all for them—always for them. He’ll make the jump and get back to them and hold them in his arms. He’ll feel their warmth. 

Killua is setting off, boots slamming against the floor. He’s running fast, faster than he ever has, and without even hesitating, he’s hopping onto the ledge and bending his knees, flexing his muscles and jumping. Full force. No stopping. Stopping means losing momentum. Faintly, he thinks he feels a ghost of a hand nearly grab him.

The wind itself screams loudly in his ears. Louder than the Screamers down below. 

His heel is connecting with the next roof over, and Gon is latching onto him, fingers digging into the skin of his forearms and holding him tightly—trembling.

Gon’s fingers are _trembling_. 

Killua wonders if it's from the adrenaline or something deeper. 

“Fuh—Fuck.”

Gon takes a shaky breath, bruising grip still on Killua.

Taking a chance to look back, Killua’s eyes drift to the other rooftop, and he feels his heart stop, his skin pale. There are dozens of Screamers, all on the rooftop, groaning and crying and shoving past each other. Some are reaching out from the rooftop, arms outstretched in the direction Killua had jumped from. 

“One of them almost grabbed you.” 

His voice is shaking, quivering and drenched in fear.

What does it mean?

He lets Gon hold onto him. 

“We should lay low for the night,” Killua says, averting his gaze from Gon’s hard gaze. “They’re all riled up.”

A slow nod. 

The sun is falling past the horizon. The screams haven’t stopped. It’s attracting more and more of them. It’s a haunting noise.

Even in the darkness of it all, when Killua can barely see the rooftop across from them filled with Screamers, he can still feel Gon’s grip—it hasn’t loosened, it hasn’t softened. It remains a constant, holding onto Killua’s shoulders and pulling him close. 

“Are you alright?” Killua’s voice is barely above a whisper. 

Gon tenses. “Yeah.” 

“You don’t look alright.” 

“I’m fine,” He grits.

Killua huffs, pulling away from his grasp just to watch the panic seize his face once again. He stares pointedly. “Gon. You’re not okay.” 

“You shouldn’t have pushed me out of the way.” 

He pauses. “Huh?”

“Back down in the supermarket. You shouldn’t have pushed me out of the way.”

“What the hell are you saying?” Killua furrows his eyebrows. “There was a Screamer coming for you, Gon.”

“I could’ve handled it!” He raises his voice, and the Screamers which had calmed down begin to mutter a little louder, spurred by the loud noise. 

Killua diverts his attention from the roof across from them to the street, and back to Gon—grabbing his wrist and pulling him to sit near the wall.

“Yeah, you could,” He starts, and Killua lets his hand slowly come off Gon’s wrist, seated next to him. “But I didn’t want to take that risk.”

Gon stares at him. He’s quiet, breathing slowly. It’s silent, and the sun has fully set now. The wind is silent, and on nights like this, Killua misses the familiar sound of crickets chirping—even if he used to find them annoying. He misses the street lamps flickering, and the loud drunks on the streets. He misses life before everything happened. 

“Sorry.” Gon says softly, looking away from him. “I shouldn’t have gotten upset.”

Killua hums. 

“My mentor died from an ambush on our old camp.” Gon starts after a beat of silence. “That new faction going around killing other humans, they came to our base with lots of Screamers, and they broke down what little defense we had. Kite was adamant about protecting the people.”

He gives a small laugh. Gently, he presses his head against Killua’s shoulder.

“I still dream about him, sometimes. But most times, it’s about my Aunt Mito dying. I have those nightmares often.” 

It clicks with Killua then, the purpose of the spray paint. 

“I told you I studied on the mainland because there were no schools on Whale Island. Well, it took me three days to find a boat to reach the island. When I got there, the house door was kicked down, and there was blood everywhere. But Mito wasn’t there. I don’t know where she is, Killua. I don’t—”

Gon presses the palm of his hands into his eyes to stop the tears. Bites his lip to calm the shuddering breaths. 

Killua brings his hand slowly to wrap around Gon’s shoulder and pull him closer into his chest. 

“It’s okay,” he says softly. “She’s still out there.”

Gon looks up at the stars. A reminiscent smile on his face. 

When they’re like this, with Gon so close, the strange urge to kiss his forehead is like an itch Killua can’t quite quell.

Instead, as a weak substitute, Killua rests his chin on Gon’s head.

“The small photograph she had of me in our hallway was missing. That’s the only thing I have left.” 

“The memory?”

“The fact that she took it with her.”

A soft hum. 

With Gon in his arms, it’s never a tiring feeling. It’s never hard to fall asleep. Killua feels his eyelids grow heavy, lulled by the beat of Gon’s heart, and the slow, rhythmic exhales. First, the rooftop begins to vanish from his sight, then Gon’s figure, until he’s surrounded by darkness and silence.

It’s not scary this time. 

Killua stirs awake to the sun heating his skin, and crows in the air eyeing them curiously. 

Slowly, he brings his eyes to the side, where the other rooftop is.

There are still Screamers there, standing around and calmed. Killua breathes a sigh of relief, looking down at Gon in his arms. He has his eyes shut, head now completely pushed into Killua’s chest. And Killua hesitates to remove his arm from around his shoulder, opting to just run his thumb on the skin.

The repeated action has Gon stirring, and he slowly opens his eyes, pushing up and out of Killua’s chest, face marked red with the lines of his turtleneck. An odd smile graces his lips, strewn and tired, and not at all completely there. His eyes crease into crescents. 

“ _Buenos días, corazón_.” 

Killua vaguely recognizes those words as Spanish.

“Good morning.” 

It takes a moment for Gon to mentally catch up—to remember the situation they’re in, and to think of a strategy to get _out_. But when he remembers—mid-yawn, slowly coming back to rest against Killua—his eyes are widening, and any remnants of sleep disappear within seconds. 

“Shit!” 

“Chill, chill—breathe.” Killua takes Gon in his arms. “Look, they’ve calmed down. As long as we’re quiet, they won’t get agitated.”

“We don’t know that—”

“We just have to be careful!” Killua interrupts. “If you’re hungry, grab something from my bag, there should still be some corn and rice in one of the bowls from the camp.” 

“And you?”

“‘M not hungry. Concentrate on that, and I’ll get us out of here.”

Gon slowly nods, takes the bag next to Killua and groans from the ache in his bones. 

“You getting old?” Killua snorts. 

Gon shoves his shoulder. “You try sleeping in a sitting position.”

Killua deadpans. “I did. We slept together.”

A flush covers Gon’s cheeks, and he looks away, busying his hands with the small bowl of food, covered only by a dirty cloth and band. He eats silently, eyes down onto the bowl, and Killua keeps his stance low—inching over to the edge of the roof to look at the Screamers.

The Screamers haven’t noticed them, and as long as they don’t, they can get through this. Killua’s eyes scan the streets, and he just barely restrains the swear from falling from his lips. There’s dozens of them—bumping into each other, walking on broken legs and missing shoes. A few are missing patches of skin. 

He looks away when his eyes land on a child, skin rotten and one arm broken.

“There’s a ladder that goes down to the street from here.”

Gon hums, putting the bowl back into the bag. 

“They’re all still there, from yesterday.”

A sharp intake of breath.

“What do we do?”

Swinging the bag over his shoulder, Killua outstretches his arm to help Gon up, emphasizing to him to stay low. Carefully, his fingers wrap around his wrist and pull him towards the ladder at the back end of the shop.

“This is going to sound gross,” Killua starts, grimincing to himself, “But we can get past them with smearing guts from one of them on us. Heavily.” 

Silence. 

“Are you sure?”

Killua nods. “I’ve done it before; it’s why Nanika had blood smeared on her. If she ever got separated, I don’t know if Screamers would recognize her as human or Screamer.”

He lets out a quivering sigh. “Alright then. Let’s do this.” 

There’s a small glint of determination in Gon’s eyes—barely present but _there_ , and Killua wonders if it’s a good thing or not. 

The ladder creaks and shakes as Killua slowly descends on it, and they’re careful, one step and then another, hands tight around the poles until their knuckles are white. Gon doesn’t follow down until Killua has completely reached the floor, unsure of whether or not the ladder would snap and break at the pressure of two people on it. 

The groans of the undead are louder here than they are on the roof. 

“We need to grab one.” 

Gon nods. 

Killua bends, scoops up a rock—discarded from the asphalt street, broken apart from the road. 

“I’ll throw the rock and hopefully it’ll attract one,” Killua says, twiddling the rock in his hand. “Get in that crate over there.” 

“Killua—”

“Get in the crate, I’ll run there after.”

He stares at him for a little too long, eyes a little too worried and a little too soft. Killua huffs, and carefully steps further out of the alley. The morning light washes over him and warms him, and it exposes the plethora of Screamers just outside the alley, wandering aimlessly. 

A deep breath. 

_Gon is safe._

_If this goes wrong._

He tosses the rock to the edge of the entrance—several Screamers turn their heads, and Killua is turning on his heel, rushing back to the crate where Gon is. _Don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip_. Up the alley, into the crate. 

Swings the worn lid open, and Gon is sitting inside, holding a glare all-too-strong for Killua’s taste. He hops inside, too.

The inside of the crate mutes the outside world—it muffles and lowers any sound that may be occuring. And while they can barely hear the Screamers that pass by, what Killua _can_ hear is Gon’s slow breathing. His heartbeat. Their knees knock together, and Killua is practically on him, their chests pressed—faces inches apart.

Neither speak a word. 

But Killua doesn’t miss the flush that extends down Gon’s neck, the way his breath hitches.

He also doesn’t miss the hard-pressed glare still coating Gon’s features.

The stepping outside slowly passes them.

There are several shuffling footsteps.

Killua wants to swear aloud, but Gon is pressing his index finger into Killua’s lips, shaking his head and signaling to the Screamers obviously outside the box. He makes several signals with his hand, hand sifting through his back to barely show the knife. 

_Lift the lid._

_Sneak._

_Kill from behind._

Gon is moving, pushing the lid slowly to peak out. 

Three Screamers, down the alley, deeper into the darkness. He grins. 

Quickly, he’s jumping out, and Killua follows. Gon has a single knife drawn, and Killua is fluidly whipping out the two knives strapped onto his thighs. This is fine. It’s doable. Killua will strike two at once, and Gon will get one. That way, none will scream. 

None will be alerted. 

One second, two seconds, same time—puncture. 

Their skulls crack, and Killua feels the disgust within him. How many people has he killed now? The number continues to rise. Near-black-colored blood drips from both his knives. Killua stares at the sharp edge, before sighing and crouching over the bodies, fingers ripping off what little tattered clothing remains. 

He hates doing this every time. 

The faces of those he’s killed—he internalizes them.

“You need to dig into their stomach. Flip the bodies over.” 

Gon visibly shudders. “Okay.”

The sound of flesh and muscle being torn rings loudly in Killua’s ears. Even if it makes no sound at all. 

“How much of this do we need?”

“On us?” 

A nod. 

“Dunno,” Killua says, and he sticks his hand in the Screamer’s stomach. “But I usually lather as much as I can on Nanika. Be generous with it.”

Gon makes a face of disgust as he does as told, forcing his hand through the slice into the stomach, pushing around inside. 

“How do you even know this works?” 

The memories come flashing back. Killua doesn’t want to think about it.

“I had to do it once.”

He hums. 

“Turn around.” 

Slowly, Gon turns—though he holds a face of uncertainty, questioning Killua’s request. 

Killua takes a handful of blood and guts, and smears it on Gon’s back. Gon gasps, wriggling his hands. 

“Kil-lu-a!” He whines, not at all loud—quiet and whispered and ushered to avoid alerting Screamers nearby. 

Killua holds a snort. 

“Stop being a baby, you can wash off once we get back.”

Gon is pouting, turning to do the same to Killua—smears the guts onto Killua more aggressively than needed. 

“Your face and hair too.”

“Seriously?”

Killua deadpans. “Yes.” 

Killua’s white hair gets tainted red, alabaster skin smeared with blood. And Gon’s honey-coated skin is dripped in crimson—ugly and rotten bits of flesh stuck to the goopy, dripping bits of blood. Killua hopes this is enough. Hopes and prays and chants in his head, over and over, that this is _enough_. 

They make their way out of the alley, peering out into the streets. 

_God, there are so many_. 

Children, adults—men and women and girls and boys. Discarded bodies and missing limbs and broken bones. 

They slip into the crowd. 

Instinctively, Killua’s hand shoots out as they shove further into the crowd—it grabs Gon’s and holds him tight, fingers interlacing his, pulling him close to him. 

The Screamers mutter to themselves.

Mutter words of their past, of what they barely remember. 

Or at least, Killua likes to think they can still remember. 

He likes to think they can retain something of the past. 

Wheezed, broken fragments. Incomplete stories. 

_“Puh—Please, don’t… don’t leave.”_

_“With...without me…”_

_“You nuh—need to run. Leave… Leave me.”_

Gon’s hand tightens around Killua’s—and Killua looks over, blue eyes meeting grimmanced hazel. He keeps his head low, looking down, shoulders tensed and knuckles white. Killua tugs him closer. Closer, and closer, until Gon’s shoulder is bumping into his, and his left leg hits Killua’s right leg.

Killua opens his mouth, to say something, to comfort him, but another voice rings out.

_“Mmm...Mom? Ah, I cah—I can’t see you...”_

Gon’s footsteps come to a complete halt. Slowly, his eyes trail up, meeting the sight of a Screamer—small, and frail, and a child at heart. She mumbles and mutters about her mother, over and over, and Killua sees the way Gon’s lips tremble, and a tremor runs through his fingers. 

He tugs Gon along, forcing him away from the child with rotting flesh and missing shoes—shirt torn and one sock rolled off, dirty and worn. 

They walk in silence, until they’re cleared from the crowd of Screamers, going back in the direction from where they came. Gon hasn’t let go of Killua’s hand, even once they’re well-far-enough from that hoard. He holds onto Killua, grip not once relenting in its firmness. 

The glare in Gon’s eyes hasn’t left, but he looks irritated and exhausted more than anything. 

Killua stares at him as they walk hand in hand down the empty roads. Gon’s eyes meet his before averting back onto the road. 

“You’re mad.”

“Yeah.” 

Killua sighs. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Gon’s glare softens. Just a little. 

“For?”

“Old habits dying hard.” 

A small nod. 

“There’s no reason to not let me help in risky situations.” 

Killua doesn’t reply. He wisely keeps his mouth shut. 

“Don’t just throw yourself into situations. I don’t want to see you dead as much as you don’t want to see me dead.” 

He doesn’t get a chance to internalize the words—Gon is tugging on his hand to move faster. 

“C’mon, walk faster.” Gon whines, his glare melting off into a smile. “You put all these guts on me, I want them _off_.” 

Killua snorts, and lets Gon pull him forward. 

It takes three days to arrive back at the camp. 

Three stupidly long days of traversing road after road—walking on deserted highways and sleeping under bridges. Three days of hearing Gon whine about the utter _disgustingness_ of his form, dried blood smeared all over his skin and clothing— _it’s positively ruined,_ he’d cry.

By day two on the road, the walkie talkies had started working again. 

They’d connected quickly to the radio channel back at the camp, and Alluka’s voice had been more than delighted to hear her big brother’s voice over the speaker. Faintly, he could hear Nanika ask aloud to Alluka where Killua was and why she could hear his voice. 

Killua had promptly, and aggressively, rubbed at his face to mask the watering of his eyes—of hearing both their voices. Soft and worried and full of love. And Gon had looked at him with such a fond smile when Killua had radioed Alluka, asking her how she’d been, asking her how Nanika was. Killua struggled to cap the smile that formed on his face when hearing his little sisters cry his name into the channel. 

Nearly a week away is a long time. 

Alluka stays on the radio with him, pestering him about whether or not they found anything valuable. Killua parrots back whatever they _did_ find—which wasn’t much to begin with. And the negatives outweigh the positives, but Gon is jumping into the conversation and assuring Alluka that it had gone a lot better than it usually did during his scavenges alone. 

He has no idea what those words mean, considering they were most definitely not in a good situation just a few days ago. They’d practically hightailed out of the town—hands held together by the twitching of muscles, their bags strapped tightly onto their backs. 

And Killua never thought it would be possible, but the gates of the prison fill his body with peace. Once they’re within his line of sight, just a little far, but _there_ —just down this winding road of forest—Killua can feel the tension slip out of his body and the exhaustion seep in. Because he didn’t sleep well—not outside, not traveling. 

Even if Gon was with him, it was a reminder of his situation before they’d met, and it was a reminder that anything could happen _now_. 

Sparing a look at Gon, Killua laughs. “You wash up first. You look just about ready to commit arson.”

Gon gives a dry laugh, rubbing his neck and grimacing when his fingers touch dried blood. “Is it that obvious?” 

“If you complaining the entire damn way here wasn’t, yes.” 

An outright laugh from the older man. 

They both pause in front of the gate, staring up at the prison guard tower with a grin, and Ikalgo is popping his head out with wide eyes.

Killua is sure they both look like a sight to see. 

The gates open with a creak. 

“What the hell happened to you?” Ikalgo shouts, gaze zeroed in at Gon in wide-shock from the top of the tower. 

Gon gives a nervous chuckle, raising his voice. “It’s a long story.” 

When Ikalgo sets down from the ladder, he looks between Killua and Gon and their proximity, their fingers nearly brushing, and his eyes practically bore holes into Killua. “Did you both, uh…” 

The implication hangs heavy in the air. 

A flush swallows Gon’s honey-colored skin, and he stammers, waving his hands frantically. “No, what? Uhm—”

Killua frowns despite the crimson red that coats his own skin. “I don’t see why that matters.” 

Gon snaps his mouth shut, turning to Killua.

“Either way,” Killua starts, rolling his shoulders to shake off the stiffness, “Gon needs to wash up. He’s been complaining about that blood on him for the past three days. I’mma go see my sisters.” 

The slightly cold attitude comes off him in waves—but he can’t be bothered to care. Is it rude? Yeah. Would Alluka smack him? Most definitely. Is Killua going to take it back? Absolutely not. Not when Ikalgo had stared at him with… with an emotion Killua can’t exactly place. 

The smiles he had given him prior to Killua’s recent developments with Gon have melted away and given way to something _else_. 

He trudges into the camp, past the refugees who loiter outside, witnessing his return. Some had waved when he’d walked past, others nodded. Killua had simply dipped his head in acknowledgement at their actions, continuing his walk inside and into the familiar cell. 

The walkie-talkie is heavy in his hand as he gets closer to his room. 

An idea spurs in his head. He presses the button to open a channel, slowing his steps, stopping just the corridor over from his room, the hall perpendicular to his own. 

“Alluka.”

The radio clicks. 

“Brother?” 

A grin laces Killua’s lips. 

“I might be a little late. Gon and I got a little caught up, and we’re still kinda far from the camp.” 

For a moment, no reply. Killua frowns. 

“Really?” She asks after a moment. “Did you both _do_ something?” Her voice holds a teasing lilt. 

The frown melts off Killua’s face just as quickly as it had come, replaced with blushing cheeks and trembling fingers. 

“No, you little rascal!” Killua says, fumbling over his words. “You’re like twelve—don’t say those things!” 

“I’m twenty-two, brother.” 

Killua can hear the deadpan in her voice. 

“You know damn well that’s not what I meant.” 

They both laugh. 

“Are you going to keep pretending you're not a few doors away? I know you’re in the camp.” 

Killua sighs with a smile, pocketing the radio and hurrying his steps. Longer strides, even if his thighs ache and complain with every shock against the dirty tile floor. 

He swings the door open, and Alluka is sitting there, at the foot of the bed, holding a deadpan expression, chin propped against her palm, one eyebrow arched. 

“Very impressive.” 

Killua snorts. “I wanted to surprise you.” 

She’s already standing on her feet, mumbling lowly: “”M not twelve anymore.” 

Regardless of what her words say, her arms wrap around Killua’s torso, bringing him in for a hug despite the blood that will inevitably rub off on her as well. Killua returns the embrace just as strong, arms gripping her tightly—and he presses a soft kiss to the crown of her head. 

“Worried about me?”

“About my big brother? Yeah.” She says, looking up at him with a smile. “I’m glad you're back in one piece. Not happy about all that blood on you, though.” 

A chuckle. “It was kinda necessary.”

“A horde?” 

Killua opens his mouth to reply, but he sees Nanika lift from the bed, mask off, eyes searching around the room. 

“ _Kih—Kiruah_?” Her voice is small and breathless, an ugly wheeze that has him looking up. 

When her eyes meet his, she’s forcing her muscles to move faster than usual, struggling to cap down and measure her movements—fumbling to stand and push off the comforter, hands shaking as she stumbles to him, dragging one leg, hands trembling as she reaches out for him. 

“ _Kiruah!_ ”

Killua steps a little closer to her, taking her into his arms and hugging her. She can’t reciprocate—or at least, not as firmly—but her hands wrap around his waist, and she’s stuffing her face into his chest, mouth twitching in an effort to smile wide. 

“Hi Nanika,” Killua whispers, burying his face into her long hair, kissing her temple. “Big brother is back.” 

“ _Yeh—Yeah…”_ She mumbles, and there’s a permanent smile set on her face, no matter how much of a strain it puts on her to smile. 

Killua knows how genuine it is. 

He pulls Alluka closer, hugging the both of them—and they bask in the silence, in the feeling of reunification and happiness and comfort. Killua is _so glad_ to be back. For a moment, his breath falters. It becomes shaky, and his eyes water, but he takes a deep breath and smiles to himself. 

He’s back home to his sisters. 

After a while, Nanika gets restless, anxious to move away, and Killua lets go of her—watches as she wanders to the bed and clumsily sits on it, pushing herself up and crawling to the pillows. 

“You know,” Alluka starts, eyeing him. “As much as I love you, I’d also really love for you to wash off all that grime.” 

Killua smirks. “Bothered?” 

“Very. Go wash off so we can all sleep—Nanika has been restless without you at the camp for so long.” 

A feeling of guilt overcomes Killua, and Alluka quickly frowns, stepping forward. 

“Don’t you dare.” She says firmly, grabbing his cheeks to force him to look down at her. “Look at me, brother.”

He does. 

“You can’t revolve your life living just for us. Or around us. Nanika was just worried about you, just like me. It’s not that she needs you to be here, looking after her. She was just worried. You’re allowed to step away from us and do your own things.” 

“I know…” 

“Good. Then you know you don’t _have_ to hover over us, right?” 

A nod. 

Alluka smiles. “Perfect. Because I definitely notice you slip out of the room at night to sleep with Gon.” 

The way a blush fights its way onto Killua’s alabaster skin in record time should be an achievement in and of itself. It tints his ears red, and flushes his skin all the way down to his neck. He stammers—loses his thought process and struggles to articulate just about another. 

“I’m gonna go wash off.” He says lamely. 

She snorts, tossing him a clean towel and folded set of clothing. “I cleaned these just for you.”

Killua is rushing out of the room, with the only thing he can hear being Alluka’s receding laughter from their room. 

The flush is still on his cheeks, and Killua mutters meaningless words to himself—recounts the memories and thoughts and experiences. Gon’s warm body, Gon’s honey skin, Gon’s sleeping face, and dusted star-freckles—the slope of his nose and the color of his lashes spanning his cheekbones. 

Killua’s lips quiver. 

He thinks about Ikalgo’s words as he steps outside, the lake just in view with the setting sun. 

_“Did you both, uh…”_

A frown cascades onto him again, and he feels himself ponder the words. 

Did they _what_? 

_Why is it his business?_

He crinkles his nose in distaste. 

_Gon should be done in the lake, right?_

_It’s been a while._

Killua steps just outside the gate, walking past the guard tower and looking up, but Ikalgo isn’t there, and Killua wonders where he could’ve gone. Instead, he sets down the towel and hooks his fingers into the chain-link gate, pulling it to the right to barely manage to inch it open. He slips through the small opening. 

The lake is just to his left, down a small trail and surrounded by trees—not necessarily hidden, but it provided plenty of privacy for those bathing. It was an oasis of sorts. And it was open, with trees clearing out towards the shoreline—which meant there would be no sneaking up of Screamers in case there was any.

Not that they’d ever had a case—not for the year Killua had been here, at least. 

It’s a force of habit, but Killua’s footsteps are quiet, and he’s stepping carefully on the grass—unconsciously avoiding twigs and any fallen leaves. The sunset colors the natural life in an orange hue, beautiful and calm and otherworldly. Killua still hasn’t adjusted to the difference—the stark difference between the city and the rural. While the city had crumbled at the force of it all, the natural world had prospered immensely. 

The sound of water has Killua looking up, stopping his musing and looking out at the lake. 

He freezes. 

Because Gon is standing there, form receding further into the lake, fingers just barely skimming through the water as he wades, back turned to Killua—tan skin littered with small scars and splattered freckles: on his back, and shoulders, and neck. His thighs, what was exposed by the water, sport scars of their own—these longer and thicker than the smaller nicks everywhere else. 

_Gon has love handles_. 

_Love handles._

_Force a swallow, tear away your gaze._

Killua’s line of sight travels and lands on Gon’s lower back, where his hip dips protrude from beneath his love handles, and there are two small indentations on his back—back dimples that lull his eyes into traveling lower. 

He nearly chokes on his own spit.

Killua feels himself redden, forcing his eyes to travel back up, mouth dry, licking his lips and not knowing where to look—because… because this is indecent, right?

He quickly averts his gaze, scrambling to pick up the towel he’d set down, knees quivering under the stress of it all. 

Gon’s form is lit by the sunset, rays of light hitting his skin, lighting up his already perfect complexion. And his hair is dripping wet, dropped down and _different_ , unlike what Killua usually saw. 

Killua risks one last look, lips pressed together, before turning and heading out of the lake view fast—back to the camp. 

There’s excited knocking at Killua’s door before it slams open, barely three seconds in between each action—and Gon is there, bouncing on the balls of his feet, holding the wooden box of dominos. 

“We’re playing.” 

Killua looks up blankly from his bed. “Good afternoon to you too.” 

“C’mon, we’ve stalled long enough.” 

“We just got here, like, two days ago.” Killua replies dryly, hands behind his head, legs crossed. He shuts his eyes.

Gon whines. “Killua! I want to teach you how to play!” 

“Give me five more minutes.” Killua says, dragging his arm from his nape to his eyes, covering them completely. 

“Kil-lu-a!” 

Killua feels a smirk lace his lips. “Baby, do you really want to play that bad?” 

He peaks just a little from under his arm to look at Gon’s face. 

It’s flustered red. 

“You said you’d win, and I just think it’s my place to prove you wrong, _corazón_.” 

The words make Killua’s own face heat up.

Luckily, it’s hidden from sight by the arm covering him. 

Ever since they got back—ever since Killua had seen Gon at the lake—they’d been like _this_. Dancing around each other, light banter with a hint of something more.

Killua hums. “You just really want to lose, hm?” Pressing his arm against the mattress, Killua lifts himself from the sheets. “I didn’t know you were into that.”

The flush on Gon’s cheeks spreads, down his neck and up to his ears—but the stupid grin on his face hasn’t left. “I don’t know; why don’t you find out?”

A snort, and Killua is standing up, striding over to Gon. 

“Let’s play then, since you’re so confident.” 

“Out in the lunchroom?”

Killua grins. “Sure.” 

The wooden box of dominos shakes with every step they take. And Gon recounts the game, detail for detail—runs through everything he can remember at the moment. 

“We can start with a practice run, and then an actual game. I’ll stop and tell you of anything I remember.” 

The doors to the lunchroom come into view. 

The confidence which shone brightly before has dimmed just a little, because Gon had run through the rules so quickly that it had left him winded and slightly confused. Not that he’d say it aloud. He instead continues his steps next to Gon. 

There’s already a crowd surrounding an empty table, and Killua notices Alluka and Nanika sitting close, giving him an expectant look that will end with his demise. He averts his gaze. 

“Why do I feel like I’m walking into my death?” Killua mutters, eyeing all the adults and teens surrounding the table with hungry eyes. 

Some laugh at his comment. 

“It’s been awhile since Gon has played.” Zushi says, standing at the table with a ripped piece of paper and a knife-sharpened pencil. “Your scoreboard.” 

Gon grins. “Thanks for getting it.” 

Killua thinks nearly the entire camp is here, watching him. 

“Killua thinks he’s going to beat Gon?” Someone laughs. 

“Fat chance.” Killua recognizes the voice as Ikalgo’s. 

“Aye, Killua,” Another voice chimes—it’s Knuckle, standing beside Shoot. “Give it up. Not a single person here has beat him at this stupid game. It’s a strategy game, and it’s _his_ game.” 

He frowns. “He has a brain?”

The crowd erupts into laughs, and Gon chuckles, setting the dominos down on the table and sliding open the box. He looks up at Killua, eyes unusually sly. “Remember everything, _corazón_?”

A dry swallow, and Killua nods—taking a seat at the table, in front of Gon. 

“Let’s get this started, then.” 

The dominos clash onto the table loudly, ringing and chiming against each other that has Nanika shaking her head in slight annoyance. And Gon is quick, writing his name and Killua’s onto the paper with the dried pen, splotches of ink forming letters instead of a fluid streak. 

He spins the dominos, over and over, in a clockwise and counterclockwise motion, laughing when Zushi mentions him doing ‘agua’. Killua just sits and watches, hands on his thighs, eyes staring intently. The snickering behind him has him tensing. 

“We’ll start with a practice round, then?” 

Killua nods. 

“Alright then. _Par_ or _non_?” 

Already, Killua is thrown off. He frowns. 

Gon giggles. “Sorry. Even or odd?”

He hesitates before answering. “O...Odd?” It’s not a sure statement. 

Gon gives a small smile, eyes half-lidded as he flips the domino in the center. The number is odd. The crowd around them whistles. 

“Killua, you go first.” 

“I go first?” 

“Mmhm.” 

Carefully, Killua looks at his ten dominos, and counts each in his head. Gon had said once you run out, you win—and winning he fully intended to do, his competitive nature locking in. Gon had also said that you usually always play the highest number. Killua places down a double nine. 

A hush falls among the refugees. 

“Making big moves, _corazón_?”

Killua grins. “Only for you, baby.” 

Gon flushes, placing down a nine and two. Killua glances between the table and his dominos. Three twos, each with lower-values. Killua places the two and four. Gon places a four and three. Killua places a three and seven. A grin spills onto Gon’s lips, crinkling his eyes into crescents beautifully, before he quickly places a double seven, changing the direction of the board. 

_There’s no seven in his deck._

_Pass._

Gon places a seven and five. 

_Pass._

Five and six. 

_He has a six._

Six and nine. 

Nine and one. _Pass._ One and zero. _Pass._ Zero and eight. 

Gon has two dominos remaining. 

Killua places down an eight and three. 

Three and five. He has a single domino remaining. _Pass._ Killua doesn’t have fives. He doesn’t have sevens, or fives, or ones, or zeroes. It was a shit draw. Random, but still shit. Gon slams down a five and seven.

The crowd claps and whistles, watching eagerly and closely. Killua places his dominos onto the table, revealing his hand, and Gon quickly tallies up the score in his favor, humming to himself cheerily. 

“Damn Gon, you didn’t even spare him in the practice?” Knuckle whistles. 

Killua huffs. “Lucky draw.” 

The smile Gon gives is radiant, and he pulls the dominos back into the center, shuffling them ‘ _en agua’_ again, as Zushi had said. Gon’s fingers are nimble, reaching for far-off dominos at the edges of the group and pulling them to the center. He gives them a firm turn-around, before slowly and distributing ten to Killua and himself. 

“No more practice.” Gon says, voice light and airy, and he looks at Killua with a smile. “Even or odd?”

The game begins. 

Eleven games lost within thirty minutes, and Killua is sure he’s cheating. There’s no way that Gon is _this_ good at a game. Barely a single person watching had left—and those who had left returned within minutes. Unsurprisingly, Killua’s competitive nature felt just a little peeved. A little annoyed, a little flattened. 

Because Gon had been effortlessly winning every match—with a ridiculous streak of eleven wins and zero loses, no less. 

Although, Killua couldn’t argue that his smile is something he loved seeing. 

Every round Gon won, a smile broke out on his face, big and bright, beaming with happiness—a smile that caused his cheeks to bunch up cutely, caused his eyes to shut and brows to furrow as he giggled slightly. To say Killua was endeared was an understatement. 

“I’ll be the first to win against you.” 

“Mmhm.” Gon mumbles, placing another domino down onto the table quickly. “Don’t keep me waiting then.” 

Killua places down a five and seven, staring at the table, when an idea crosses his mind. 

A universally bad one, probably. But he’s one-hundred-percent determined in winning, dignity be damned, and if this increases his chances by just a bit, then he’s willing to take it. 

He reaches out for Gon’s hand—his left, conveniently placed on the table, thumbing one of the dominos as he thinks—and intertwines their fingers. Laces them together, hands clasped together, just as it was on their walk out of the horde, and the familiar feeling of Gon’s honey-colored skin in his own is comforting. 

Killua slides his thumb across his dorsal soothingly. 

The effect is instant. 

A flush spreads on Gon’s cheeks, extends to his ears and nose—coloring him a beautiful shade of red that Killua will never tire of seeing. His eyes run between their entwined hands and Killua’s eyes: startled. Killua can see his other hand go through a shudder, his skin lifting a bit into goosebumps. The involuntary response makes Killua grin. 

“Puh—Pass.” Gon’s voice stammers. 

Killua places another domino, seven and two. As Gon looks at his dominos, Killua tightens his grip on his hand just a little—something meant as a reassuring gesture. And something meant to fluster Gon. More of the latter than the former. 

And it works like a charm, because Gon’s eyes dart again, unconcentrated, and he quickly slams a domino on the table.

Killua stares at the table. He feels giddy at the responses Gon is giving. Holds in the urge to squeeze his hand once again. “Baby, that’s not a two.” 

Gon’s eyes widen, and he looks down at the domino. Instead of a two, the piece reads one and five. Neither number is a connecting piece to Killua’s own. He opens and shuts his mouth, face reddening impossibly more—before his right hand comes and slowly removes the piece from the table.

Murmuring explodes within the crowd. 

This has apparently never happened to Gon.

Killua stifles a laugh, and watches as Gon places the correct domino on the table this time. 

Two and nine.

There are only four remaining dominos in Gon’s deck. Killua has five. He stares down at the back-sided pieces and then up at Gon’s face. He’s still flushing, embarrassed—keeps his eyes averted from Killua, left hand still within Killua’s grasp. And the notion that Gon hasn’t pushed Killua’s obvious efforts at flustering him away must be a good sign, right?

Killua’s eyes look at his remaining five dominos. He has a single domino with a nine—but it’s a double, and that means he’d be securing Gon an even faster win, because the direction would split in two. Killua chews on the inside of his cheek in thought. 

He doesn’t want to let Gon win _again_. 

_He needs to see what remaining dominos Gon has._

Gon definitely has a one and five, as he’d mistakenly placed. But that leaves three unknown variables. 

Cheating. He can cheat through this—if he has to. It’s really not even about dignity anymore, or pride, because both of those were well on their way being gone. And Gon’s smile was an infectious thing that made Killua a little winded and a little shocked, a little discordant with his surroundings. Killua just wants the notion of having won against _Gon_. Gon, who was highly praised for his ability to never lose.

The idea forms in his head rather quickly, at a speed which should arouse suspicion. 

But it has Killua smiling into the palm of his hand, smothered by his hand, before he’s calling out to Gon. 

“Hey, Gon.” 

He wants Gon to look at him. 

Hesitantly, their eyes meet. 

Killua is leaning over the table fast, wooden surface digging painfully into his stomach—squishing his intestines in an all-not-fun way, but it’s bearable, and Gon’s eyes widen impossibly more when Killua’s face is just inches from his—lips centimeters from tan skin—fingers tangled together, and Gon grips his hand tighter when Killua’s soft lips meet the corner of his mouth. 

The seconds seem to drag on. 

The entire room is silent. Watching. Appalled. 

He leans back. Gon looks dazed, and Killua wants to laugh. The red on his cheeks reminds him of the once-vibrant fire hydrants placed around the city—an unmissable red color to the eye. Yeah, that was Gon right now. Killua was sure of it. His lips trembled, and his hand twitched in Killua’s: fingers clenching and unclenching and wriggling to find comfort. 

Killua finds it enchanting—doesn’t make any attempt to cover the blush spreading across his pale skin. 

And realizes, with a start, that he was so lost in the moment with Gon that he’d forgotten to look at his dominos. 

He sighs in defeat: places the double nine. 

Gon gives another wide smile, pressing down a nine and five onto the table. Killua puts down a five and zero. Zero and zero. Killua swears. He passes. Gon has a single remaining domino in his deck. 

He’s learned, in these eleven games against Gon, that he shouldn’t have faith in the odds being against him—they always favor Gon. Impossibly so, and utterly obvious—biased in every sense of the word. And Killua watches with utter defeat swimming through his system as Gon’s happy smile widens—happy to have won _again_ —as he placed down a zero and eight.

Hazel meets blue. “I won again.” 

Killua nods. “Yeah, you did.” 

His voice comes out softer than intended.

“Although,” Gon starts, turning his head a little to avoid staring directly at Killua, “If you wanted to see what dominos I had, you’ll have to be more slick than that.”

A huff. “Yeah, yeah. I was a little busy with something else on my mind.” 

Gon stammers, hand reaching out to pool the dominos again into the center. 

“Another game?”

Killua shakes his head. “I’m throwing in the towel. There’s no winning against you.” 

Gon snorts, and looks at Killua with a soft smile. “So then, you’re going?” 

“Mmhm, yeah. I have a class to teach.” He spares Gon a glance. “And by class, I mean twenty-or-so people who barely want to be there.” 

That gets a laugh out of Gon. “That’s not true. You’re _tolerable_.”

“ _Just_ tolerable, baby?” 

A smile creases his face and hides his eyes. “Yeah, _corazón_ , tolerable.” 

“Bet you weren’t thinking that when I kissed you.” 

Red breaks out onto Gon’s face again. Killua won’t ever get tired of seeing it—it’s becoming sort of an addiction. Not at all one he minds, though. It’s the sort of addiction that leaves him craving to see more. 

“Are we having lunch together?” Gon asks, carefully beginning to pile the dominos back into their wooden box.

“After my instruction?” 

Gon nods. 

“Yeah.” 

Gon makes a poor attempt of hiding a smile, looking down to hide the soft expression.

“Okay.” His voice is gentle, barely above a whisper.

“I’ll see you in an hour, then.” Killua says, pausing to stare at Gon, before turning and heading straight for his room—knowing well that his two knives sit under the bed, just inches from his grasp when he sleeps. 

And as Killua passes the crowd of people beginning to disperse, he notices the absence of both Alluka and Nanika. He smiles to himself, knowing that they must’ve gone already, probably bored of the game after Killua’s seventh fail. The schedule runs through Killua’s head—Alluka has to hang laundry today, and clean rags and clothes. Nanika will usually just sit in the grass and watch. 

_It was nice._

Sometimes, Killua would finish teaching the able-bodied refugees and see Nanika sitting, looking up at Alluka, with her hands limply at her sides. Other times, she’d be helping her—shaky hands reaching out and handing Alluka some clothes to pin up to the lines. 

He’ll never forget the time Gon passed by, pausing to ruffle Nanika’s hair and help her with the basket of materials. Killua, at that time, had appreciated the sentiment. He still does.

Killua takes long strides, humming to himself.

The halls down to his room are, for the most part, empty. Most refugees have wandered outside, or are staying in the lunchroom to have a quick meal. He’s sure others have gone to their rooms on the other side of the prison, where five or so buildings reside. 

His door comes into sight, where the colorful streaks of unintelligible drawings jump out, and he grasps the doorknob, turning it open and stepping inside. 

To his surprise, Alluka is there, changing into a lighter pair of clothes for working outside. She pauses to stare at him. 

“Brother?”

“Hey. I thought you were outside.” 

She shakes her head. “I came in here to change. What about you?” 

“Came in to grab my knives for the lesson.” 

Killua steps inside, reaching under the bed for his knives, and suddenly noticing the absence of his other sister. 

“Alluka…” He starts, looking over at her. “Where’s Nanika?” 

She freezes, fingers tangled in her hair, and she turns to him. “I thought she was with you?” 

Killua’s heart rate begins to pick up, and sweat lines his palms. “I thought she was with _you_.” 

Black locks fall from Alluka’s fingers. “I don’t remember seeing her since your eighth match or so with Gon. I thought she’d moved closer to you.” 

Oh _God_.

It’s funny how quickly the happiness melts and rots away, casting an ugly smell. It’s funny how suddenly, Killua feels anxiety claw within—how the tendrils of thorns latch around his windpipe, and squeeze. How a brick falls heavy into his stomach and sinks further and further with every passing second. Killua clenches and unclenches his fingers to _feel_. 

A swear falls from Killua’s lips, and they’re both stumbling out of the room at record speeds, nearly tripping over each other. They split ways, with Killua speeding down the hall in the direction of the lunchroom, and Alluka stumbling down the opposite way, where she knows double-doors will lead her outside into the fields. The straps on Killua’s thighs aren’t even properly laced on—but he’s running. Running, and taking nearly no breaths. 

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. 

He’d let himself get too comfortable. 

He’d let himself believe that everyone was okay with Nanika when they weren’t. 

Of course there were still protests to her, even if they were silent. 

No one was okay with Nanika here. No one was okay with _them_ here. 

Fake smiles, and hidden guises. Lies, and delusions, and play-pretends. 

Killua grinds his teeth, mentally hits himself for ever letting this happen. 

_Maybe she’s okay_ , he wants to think. He wants to believe that Nanika had simply wandered off, or had stayed with Gon, but upon slamming the lunchroom doors and seeing Gon conversing with just a refugee, his hopes fall and his chest nearly bursts from the weight of it all. 

“Gon!” 

His voice cracks—desperate and afraid and quivering. 

The smile Gon was holding when he’d turned around slips right off. It falls into a flat line, accompanied by the furrow of his brow, and he’s quickly rushing forward, hands coming to grip Killua’s shoulders and run his thumb soothingly on the skin. Killua’s fingers tremble. 

“Killua?” 

“Nanika,” He huffs, out of breath, and he forces himself to swallow the spit that pools in his mouth. It feels like sandpaper, with his mouth so parched. “Nanika is missing. She’s not with us—not with Alluka and not with me, and we don’t know where she is. She was here during the game, I don’t understand—”

Killua is rambling. 

Gon presses his lips together, fingers clenching Killua’s skin before letting go and digging through his back pocket. The two-way radio clicks on, and Gon is speaking firmly—voice devoid of amusement: serious and cold and scary. 

“Round everyone up for a roll call. I don’t care what they’re doing. I want everyone in the lunchroom in five minutes.” 

Another click. 

Two voices chime affirmations, and Gon is directing his attention back to Killua—who’s gnawing on his lip and fiddling with his hands anxiously, stuck between pacing and not knowing what to do. Everything feels wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. And Killua doesn’t know what to do, his mind a jumbled mess of words and thoughts and expressions. Nanika is gone, Nanika is missing—his little sister is _missing_. 

“Killua.” Gon’s voice is an anchor. “We’ll find her.” 

He doesn’t even have it in him to respond. He can’t open his mouth—can’t think of anything to say. So he nods. Nods his head and stands there, staring at the few people already there. It feels a lot like he’s underwater. Underwater, sinking deeper, struggling to breathe. 

A lot of the noises around him are muffled. 

Gon’s voice is, too. 

It’s a little hard to hear anything. 

All Killua’s vision does is swim. His hands feel clammy, and he struggles to reign in his emotions. 

_Nanika—Where is she?_

There are a lot of people inside the lunchroom, when Gon’s voice booms. It’s loud—cold and indifferent and commanding. 

Killua barely notes that it’s missing his usual lilt. That Gon no longer curves his vowels softly. 

Counting.

Gon is counting to himself, a low mutter. 

And then he swears. 

All Killua can do is stand and stare in silence. Alluka is probably outside, rushing around looking for Nanika as well. 

“Killua,” Gon’s voice sounds foreign. His hands are gripping Killua’s and suddenly everything clears, like Killua has surfaced in the ocean water. “Killua!” 

There’s no panic in his voice. It switches back into a lulling thing—a gentle caress. “There’s three people missing and no one’s seen them around.”

Just like that, Killua’s heart sinks even further. He feels _sick_. 

“Maybe you should rest here,” Gon starts, but Killua is bristling within seconds of its utterance. 

Because, because he _knows_ he probably looks like a mess. Killua _knows_ that he probably looks overwhelmed. And he knows Gon means well but—

 _—Fuck_ , if it isn’t condesending for Gon to speak to him like he’s a _child_. 

“Gon, that’s my little sister.” Killua nearly growls, head tilted down and finally showing some emotion. 

“I know—”

“Then _don’t_ suggest stupid shit like that.”

Gon sighs. “I know. Sorry. It’s just—you look panicked.” 

“That’s not important right now.” 

The doors swing open. Zushi, Knuckle, and Shoot are stepping inside. Gon waves them over quickly, and their steps are quick and long—reaching three and four tiles at a time. All the refugees are inside—they’d just taken longer to arrive. Does that make them innocent or guilty? Killua doesn’t—he doesn’t know who to trust. They were nice. They were good friends of Gon.

Ikalgo is stepping over from the crowd of refugees even without prompt. Gon nods at him.

“Nanika is missing.” Is the first thing Gon utters.

They suck in a breath, eyes switching over to Killua. 

Before they can continue, Gon speaks. “We need to search the entire prison. There’s five buildings to cover, and the entire courtyard. Genthru and his two friends are the one’s missing.” 

Knuckle swears. “I told you he—”

“That’s not important right now.” Gon’s voice is final. Eyes dark and a neverending void. “Shoot, you stay and make sure no one leaves this place. You have the radio?”

A nod. 

“Alright. Knuckle, you search this building and the next. Check all the rooms. All the closed-off sections—even the closets. Zushi, I want you outside.”

“Alluka is outside already.” Killua interjects, and Gon pauses before nodding. 

His eyes look at Zushi. “Go to building three then. Ikalgo get four. Killua and I will take building five.” 

Building five is the furthest, and the oldest. 

The blueprints left behind—old and faded and splattered with _something_. It was the original main building, but much smaller in comparison to the one they were inside in now. But that meant it had more room variations—more layouts and sections and—

—Killua feels breathless. 

“Here’s my radio.” Gon hands the radio to Knuckle. He looks at Ikalgo. “There’s not enough around but—”

“It’s fine.” Ikalgo’s voice is reassuring. It makes Killua’s skin itch with impatience. 

Gon nods his head, before turning to the entire camp—to all forty-something people there. 

“We’re heading out. Anyone who has any information— _anything_ you remember seeing—relay it to Shoot.” 

There’s an understanding there. 

The five of them are tumbling out of the room directly afterwards. Knuckle is already starting down the hall, opening door after door, not closing some. He jingles them and pushes and then looks in and closes. Killua feels beyond anxious. They pass him and make their way outside, each splitting in different directions, 

Ikalgo turns right. Zushi turns the corner to go down the walk to the building behind. Killua and Gon are turning left, tumbling on their own footsteps to reach the abandoned building at the edge of the camp. 

Killua’s skin feels drained—cold and clammy and hot all at the same time. Everything feels wrong. So wrong. And he just can’t wrap his mind around the fact that this is happening. 

Nanika is somewhere, with _that man_. His little sister, particularly weak and vulnerable and sluggish in movement. God, she can’t—she can’t even walk correctly. She can’t _smile_ at him like she used to. 

Gon and him enter the double doors. 

They creak behind him in effort, and the building is dark—all dust and cobwebs and molded ceilings. 

The seconds bleed to minutes that bleed to thirty that bleed to an hour.

Until one is bleeding into two, and Killua’s legs burn from quickened paces—long strides and fast steps. The pitter-patter of their footsteps and the jiggling of knobs. The peaking in of rooms and scans down empty, abandoned hallways.

She’s not here. She’s not anywhere in this fucking building. 

Killua’s heartbeat quickens. It picks up its pace pathetically, and he feels short of breath. So much time… So much time has passed and warped and faded and gone and he’s not sure where he is or if she’s okay. He wants to hope she’s okay. So badly. He wants her to be okay—he needs her to be okay. 

“Killua—” Gon starts, hands reaching out in the silence of it all. To hold him. To soothe him. A voice interrupts him.

“Boss?” 

Gon’s eyes whip to the radio on Killua’s waist. Fumbling hands remove it from his belt. Gon presses the button.

“I’m here.” 

“Hey. It’s not much, but one of the refugees faintly recalls seeing Genthru walking to the back of the camp earlier.” 

He doesn’t even wait for Gon to reply. Killua doesn’t wait, he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t _care_. He’s taking off, feet hitting the bottom of the broken tile, running as fast as he can to the nearest exit of the building. Faintly, he registers Gon yelling out his name, and then footsteps chasing him. 

That doesn’t concern Killua right now. 

Nanika is there. She’s going to be at the back of the camp—with that _pig_. Killua grinds his teeth: he chews his lip and bites the inside of his cheek. And his vision swarms—it warps, and the noises around him muffle from the exhilaration of it all. The absolute rush that runs through him, trying to reach his sister. 

Gon is running beside him, having caught up, barely keeping up with Killua’s own speed. And Killua is breathing hard, in through his mouth and out through his nose, lungs burning, running over broken tile, and slamming the doors open to run on the overgrown grass to reach the back of the camp. 

He sees him before he gets there—tall, blonde hair, back turned to him.

And he sees a smaller figure—black hair, face blank, clothing a little roughed.

 _He had shoved her on the ground._

Killua didn’t think he could get more mad. 

Fingers reach for the knives at his thighs—trembling and cold and rushing with adrenaline. Gon’s form stops right behind him, and Killua just can’t contain his anger. He can’t contain the way his hands shake with an immeasurable rage. The way his jaw clenches and stance widdens. He can’t control the way his hands are reaching for the knives strapped to his thighs—pulls them out without hesitating.

“Killua!” 

If Killua looked a mess before, he’s sure he looks hysterical now.

“Let go of her!” 

Genthru looks up and turns with a small smile. Patient and kind and mocking. It boils Killua’s blood. 

Gon is grabbing Killua’s forearm and tugging him back. Pulling him behind him—making a barrier between himself and Genthru. It makes him more mad, and Nanika is sitting on the floor, staring at him, with big, doe eyes that makes Killua’s heart clench because—

—he’d battered her up. 

Her hair is roughed up. It’s not smoothed out, and she’s missing her mask. The hoodie on her is smeared with dirt, and hanging off one shoulder. He sees red. 

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” He seethes, bringing the knife up, up and ready in position. 

Gon wildly turns his head to look at him. He opens his mouth to speak, only to get interrupted. 

“I’m willing to make a deal.” 

They freeze. 

“You leave and turn yourself in to the Zoldyck military base. And you can have your sister back.” 

“You’re in no position to be making deals.” Killua hisses. 

“Really?” He laughs. It’s a dry, humorless thing. “You think so?” 

Sub and Bara, the two other men who are friends with Genthru, make themselves known. And Killua doesn’t know when they arrived—or maybe they’d always been there, but Killua had been so _angry_ that he hadn’t registered them. He hadn’t even bothered to pay them any heed of mind. 

They’re both holding knives. Knives from the armory. Killua recognizes them. From the makeshift armory, the one in the main building, in the room next to spare storage. 

Something clicks. Killua hears something click.

It's a gun. 

Genthru is holding a .22 to Nanika’s head. 

Killua’s blood runs cold. 

Genthru is holding a _gun_ to her head.

His heartbeat picks up. 

It does somersaults, and he feels queasy—it feels sort of like the cold seeping in through his pores. Nanika is just sitting there. She’s staring at Killua. She’s not moving at all. 

Killua forces himself to swallow. 

“All you have to do is leave. Turn yourself in. They’re looking for you—the posters haven’t slowed down.”

Gon steps forward, he shifts just a bit and stares Genthru down. “He’s not going anywhere. We already had this discussion a year ago.” 

A laugh. “My _god_ , Gon. You never cease to amaze me. Always the do-gooder. Just like Kite.” 

Standing his ground, Genthru continues. “We’re going to run out of supplies eventually, you know. At some point. It’ll just run out. We won’t have anything—we’ll have to resort to what that other faction is doing.” 

Killua can see the way Gon bristles. “We have plenty of food! We have a system. We have a farm. You’re being paranoid. We are _not_ going to resort to eating people.”

“But we _will_!” Genthru laughs, “Resources will run out eventually. It’s naive to think they won’t.”

“We’re _not monsters_ —”

“And he—” He points at Killua, talking over Gon, twirling the gun around in his direction before settling it back to Nanika’s scalp. “He is our ticket into the haven.” 

There’s a pause. A moment of silence between them all. Killua is still, the blood within him roaring in his ears, and Genthru stares at him hard. 

“So then,” the safety on the gun cocks, “What will it be?” 

He’s millimeters from pulling the trigger. 

Nanika won’t survive a bullet shot to the head. 

Screamer or not. 

It’ll kill her.

Oh god— _it’ll kill her_. 

“He’s not—” Gon starts, but Killua speaks over him. 

“I’ll do it.” Killua’s voice is an empty husk. It’s broken, and empty, and frigid. “I’ll do it—just, please, take the gun off her head.” 

The shock is apparent. It’s apparent because Genthru wasn’t expecting Killua to be so compliant—for him to give it all up. Killua can tell when he freezes in his stance. He freezes and looks bewildered, and that’s all it takes before Gon is moving forward—side-stepping Bara and Sub and gripping the gun against Nanika’s head, pushing the barrel up towards the sky and his other hand is shooting out to push down on Genthru’s wrist. 

Gon disarms him—fast and simple and steady. If Killua didn’t feel so numb and weak to his knees, he might’ve reacted that way too. 

Genthru makes a sound akin to pain, choking on his spit, cradling his wrist, when Gon pulls Nanika toward himself. Killua watches with a faint peace of mind as Gon softly adjusts the hoodie on her frame, dusts it off gently and makes sure she’s okay. He watches as Gon’s fingers smooth her hair and keep her face pressed against his chest. 

Gon is putting himself as a barrier for Killua’s little sister—

He’s pointing the gun at Genthru. 

“You have one option: get out.”

Gon alternates his stance, moving to point the gun to both Bara and Sub. “You’re a threat. You’re a threat to everyone here—not just Nanika.”

There’s a shift in the mood. A lull in the emotions. 

“You can’t just—”

“I can.” Gon’s voice is devoid of anything and everything. “You’re not excused. You crossed a line. We don’t hurt people here.” 

Killua watches as Gon’s grasp on the hand grip tightens and releases. He watches as Genthru scrambles for words. 

He just wants Nanika in his arms. 

“But—”

“You can leave right now with a few supplies. Feel free to take those knives with you. Be thankful I’m not kicking you out with nothing.”

Slowly, Gon’s hands release Nanika, and he looks at her, nodding to himself, pushing her a little towards Killua, and blue eyes meet slightly duller ones. She’s walking to Killua, feet dragging against the grass, knees knocking together, arms outstretched. And Killua is taking a shuddering breath before he’s stepping forward and pulling her into his embrace, fingers tangling in her locks of messy, black hair—gripping her tight. 

“ _Kih—Kiruah._ ”

Her voice calms him.

It steadies his heartbeat. 

He feels like he can breathe again. 

“ _Kiruah…_ ” She mumbles, smiling wide until the tendons and ligaments of her jaw are quivering with the effort to smile. “ _Kiruah, puh—pat my head_.”

Soft, gentle hands move up and pat her head soothingly. Again.

And again.

And again. 

Repeated motions.

Slow. Slow until he remembers the texture of her hair—the way it creases under his hand and the way it knots after many passings. Until Gon is nodding at him in understanding, and Killua is pulling Nanika along—further away from Genthru, and Sub and Bara: away from this shit show. 

He tugs on Nanika’s hand, and she pauses in her steps, dull eyes staring into his own. Even like this—she still breathes. She’s still _alive_ , no matter what the others say. She’s conscious. Nanika is still human. She’s more human than the other Screamer’s are. 

She stares, and carefully Killua is picking her up without further prompt. Her small frame, weak and frail and pale—blue veins protruding, ugly and thick, from her neck and jaw. He cradles her to his chest, wraps her as closely to himself as he can, so that any flying object thrown in their direction hits him and not her.

Never her.

Ikalgo, Zushi and Knuckle’s forms come running down the field, coming to a screeching halt upon seeing Nanika in his arms. A sigh of relief escapes them. And Killua is quick to gesture behind him, to where Gon still stands—posture straight and tall and confident, arm outstretched—gripping the gun.

They’re scrambling to him immediately. 

Alluka is out in the fields, and as soon as she sees Nanika in his arms, she’s running. She stumbles, nearly falls from a hole in the grass, but it doesn’t stop her, or the tears that collected in her eyes. She’s running, closer and closer, crying Nanika’s name—a shrill, desperate cry. 

Nanika’s hands come out, outstretched for Alluka, and Alluka hugs her—fingers gripping the hoodie, choking on a sob and pressing her face into her neck. She spares a glance at Killua, eyes filled with sadness, mouth laced with a broken smile. She’s overcome with emotion. 

All Nanika can do is give a chortled laugh, eyes creasing into a simple smile that doesn’t cause too much effort. 

The walk back to their room is filled with silence, love, and relief. 

Killua finds himself lost at the prospect of being unable to rest.

He doesn’t toss, or turn, but he lays still, staring up at the ceiling—Nanika’s hand in his own as she sleeps peacefully. And Alluka hadn’t been able to sleep either, despite the fatigue that clung to their bones and wore their bodies out. Despite the heavy feeling of their eyelids and the consistent yawning that broke through their lips.

Neither says a word.

They just stare up at the ceiling, the day’s events replaying in their mind, over and over, until Killua’s head feels dizzy from redoing every scene, every heart-stopping, throat-choking moment. He should probably rest. Close his eyes, and drift away. 

But Nanika’s hand in his own is a big comfort. It’s something he clings to. The pale skin heating his own calloused hands. 

Alluka had gotten back from the lunchroom—after eating dinner. She’d arrived and said nothing, just climbed onto the bed and gripped onto Nanika’s other hand. Gripped, and soothed the skin there, breathing slower just after a while. It was a scare for the both of them. Not just Killua. 

Three hours into nightfall, there’s a knock at the door. 

A gentle rapping, soft and barely heard, before the door creaks open, and Gon is peeking his head into the room, eyes zoning in on Killua.

His eyes are telling—hazel eyes brightening faintly upon seeing Killua awake. A wide grin, though he doesn’t push the door further any more than it already is. He motions he’ll wait outside, and shuts the door. 

A beat of silence.

Killua doesn’t move.

“Brother.” Alluka’s voice is firm, yet teasing. “Go.”

“Go?” 

She gives a small laugh. “Go. Gon looks a little antsy.” 

He frowns. “I don’t want to leave Nanika alone.” 

“You’re not leaving her alone. She’s with me.” 

“Yeah but—”

Alluka reaches over, carefully in her movements not to press into Nanika, and places her arm on Killua’s side before pushing _hard_. With something akin to a repressed yelp, Killua’s body is being shoved off the bed, and he barely catches himself from slamming face-first into tile. 

“Hey!” He hisses. 

“Go!” She repeats. This time, she’s looking at him, and there’s a smile on her face. “Didn’t I tell you to stop worrying? We’re going to be fine. I can handle it.” 

He doesn’t move. Not for a few seconds—not until those seconds are bleeding into several. 

Gon hasn’t moved from outside. 

Slowly, Killua nods. Alluka’s smile widens. He gets up, bones creaking and joints popping from having stayed still for so many hours on the bed, and pushes the door open a little. Gon is standing next to it, head whipping around upon hearing his exit. 

Once it shuts, he speaks: “Hey.” His voice is a murmur.

“Hey.” 

The silence is biting.

“Are you hungry?” 

Killua doesn’t know what to say.

Is he? Does he even have an appetite after today’s events? Can he eat and make sure it all stays down—without heaving it all back up in the middle of the night? Killua isn’t sure. He isn’t too confident in his response. 

Despite how he feels emotionally, his stomach growls. 

He flushes, and Gon gives a small laugh—grabbing his hand and stringing him along. 

“Let’s go get dinner then.” 

“Okay.” 

Their voices are barely above whispers. Hushed and private, like anything louder will disturb and ripple the illusion of peace. 

The walk to the kitchen isn’t long. There isn’t anyone outside so late at night—with most having retired into sleep, and if not, then having retired to their rooms. Killua is surprised to see a table in the middle of the lunchroom set up, with a bowl of food already there—one single candle lit at the center of the small table. 

Killua bites his lip in an effort not to give a tired smile. 

He can’t tell if this was Gon’s way of conserving power, or his way of being romantic. 

They take a seat at the table. There’s an array of foods set down—bread, corn, rice, lettuce and tomatoes and carrots. A bowl of soup that smells wonderful. The effort is there. Killua knows it. 

Gon still hasn’t let go of his hand, his thumb running soothingly over his dorsal, over and over, catering to calm Killua in his own way. 

“Is it good?” 

Killua looks up briefly, bringing the wooden spoon of rice and corn to his lips. He chews before answers. “You made it?” 

Gon nods.

“Then there’s nothing more to say.”

That gets a grin out of Gon—a gentle flush coloring his honey-skin and freckled face. And he eats like that, one hand in Gon’s—fingers intertwined—while the other holds the spoon and brings the food up to his lips. Gon sits and watches, chin propped against his hand, a small smile on his face. 

“How do you feel?”

“After all this?” 

Another nod.

It takes a moment for Killua to find the right words. To articulate himself correctly. “Happy. Maybe relieved? I’m glad Nanika wasn’t injured.” 

Gon hums in agreement. “He’s gone already.” 

“You sent them packing?” 

“Mmhm.” Gon’s eyes trail from Killua’s face to the boarded window. “I don’t tolerate that kind of behavior here. It was out of line. And I had a talk with everyone concerning Nanika over dinner earlier. They know, and a lot send their best regards to her.” 

All Killua can manage is a weak hum. “I’m glad.” The words are a little wet. 

Gon’s eyes snap back to him, filled with worry, and his fingers tighten around Killua’s.

“It’s just, hard, y’know?” Killua says, setting down the spoon. “It’s hard making sure she’s okay.”

He swallows before continuing. “It was like this in the last camp we were out. That’s why we separated from them two years ago, a year before we met. Nanika was subhuman, at best, to most of the refugees there. They didn’t care about her.”

“And even before that, people on the road didn’t take kindly to her, even after she proved time and time again she meant no harm. She’s just alone most of the time. And it’s hard—watching her be like that, mumbling to herself, looking blankly at things and struggling to do any basic human action when she was so… when she was so—”

“When she was so lively before?” Gon supplies, voice tender. 

Killua lets out a soft breath. “Yeah.”

“It was like that for us too. When we lost Kite, it hit a lot of people hard. I had to kill him.” There are some words there, some emotions lurking, that are left unsaid. “And I had to kill Zushi’s mentor, too. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t easy just—watching them be reduced to nothing. It’s hard when you used to know them before...”

“Before they turned.” Killua finishes. 

They look into each other’s eyes. 

“Yeah.”

There’s a beat of silence, between staring into each other, and Killua averted his gaze down to the plate of food—overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. Of how his heart felt. 

“Believe me, Gon. If—If I didn’t have to run from my family, I’d turn myself in. I’d turn myself in so that you all could have a better chance of survival. They have so much food. The base is fortified, with power and networks and working technology, probably. But, they, they’d just…”

Killua takes a deep breath. “They’d kill Nanika. They’d kill her. They wouldn’t care. They never cared about Nanika or Alluka. Only about me. That’s why—that’s why I keep running. I won’t let them hurt her. There’s gotta be a cure.”

Gon’s breath hitches. He doesn’t say a word. There’s not much he _can_ say.

A soft chuckle. Killua pushes the plate forward.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to get so… morbid, I guess.” 

For just a moment, Gon’s fingers undo their grasp from Killua’s, and he stands, taking the plate and placing it on the counter for the serving table. It’s a trifle little thing—something to deal with in the morning. During breakfast. For now, he walks back to Killua standing in front of him.

“Want to go back to your room?” 

Killua stands with a nod and appreciative smile, leaning forward to blow out the candle. He pretends he doesn’t see the way Gon’s eyes trail and stare at his pouted lips. 

And he takes that as a cue, a more obvious one than ever. As they walk beside each other, shoulders brushing, steps slow and drawn out, Killua grabs Gon’s hand. A slow intertwining of their fingers. Unhurried digits slowly wrapping around each other and tightening their hold. 

Gon doesn’t look at him, but a smile forms on his lips. 

It suits him. 

The walk back to their rooms is slow—even if there’s no one in front of them or taking up the path. Even if the hallway is empty, they take their sweet time returning down to the familiar corridor and door. Gon is practically basking in Killua’s proximity, smiling to himself and holding Killua’s hand with a reassuring grip. The action is endearing. 

Killua recognizes Gon’s door, and sighs, bringing his gaze over to look at him. 

“Gon…” Killua’s voice is a whisper. “Thank you.” 

When Gon opens his mouth to reply, Killua shakes his head. 

“No, seriously. Thank you. Thank you for today—for helping me look for Nanika, and getting others to help. It really means a lot to me that you… that you helped.”

“Killua…” A disbelieving utter of his name, before Gon is grabbing his hand with both of his own and bringing them close, a frown on his face. “Of course I’d help. It’s the right thing to do.” 

Such simple words.

Such simple, simple words—and yet they leave Killua all the more breathless, looking away and biting his lip. 

“Thanks.” 

A silence stretches.

Words at the tip of their lips—ready to spill and yet restrained by a thin piece of thread. 

Killua looks at Gon, takes in his features. “I’ll get going, then…”

“Do—Do you want me to walk you to your room?”

He holds in a laugh. “It’s five doors down, Gon.” 

“Yeah, I know but—”

It’s when Killua looks at Gon, _truly looks at him,_ that he realizes that Gon’s eyes have zoned in to his lips—that Gon’s cheeks had flushed a pretty red, the color of burning fire—matching the hazel color of his eyes, and bringing out the freckles which dot his face like stars in the sky. 

Killua’s heartbeat picks up, and slows down, all at once. All in a few seconds: He feels his heart kick and start, just with the way Gon’s eyes flicker up back to his eyes and back down to his lips. The way he swallows, and licks his lips—and Killua is stepping forward, fingers tightening around Gon’s, pressing his lips against cushioned pink. 

He presses firmly: exactly how he had wanted to when they’d been playing dominos. He presses, and steals Gon’s breath, and Gon stumbles back, feet uncoordinated and knocking against the door. His fingers undo themselves from Killua’s grasp, and grip at the door—find purchase against the doorknob. 

Killua’s hands snake around Gon’s waist to hold him. 

As soon as Killua’s fingers graze his sides, Gon’s hands are moving—traveling up his body to tangle in white tufts of snow. 

His tongue peeks out, licking along soft lips. 

A gasp; a break in the kiss. 

“Killua—”

Pretty, flustered skin. All the way down to his neck, Gon’s skin is painted red. His cheeks, nose, his ears and neck: all dusted pink. Overwhelmed emotions spilling, with his eyebrows furrowed and eyes wanting more. Killua likes _this_. Likes whatever they’re doing, because it’s safe. It’s safe, and comfortable, and everything he’s been wanting for a while now. 

The doorknob presses into the small of Gon’s back, and his hips stutter forward—forces him against Killua, and Gon can feel him. Senses heightened and sensitive to every little thing. Tan fingers grip white hair tighter—tug on Killua’s scalp just a little, and leave a burning sensation that feels more like a comfortable buzz under Killua’s skin. 

“Killua, Is—Is this okay? Should we be doing—” His breath hitches when Killua’s lips are giving feather-light kisses to his jaw, moving further and further from their original spot. “Should we be doing this?”

Killua swallows deeply, burying his face in Gon’s neck, huffing and struggling to catch any remnant of oxygen in his lungs.

“Yeah. This is alright—This is, this is more than alright, Gon.” 

The words are whispered—soft, trembling things, that warm and fan against the expanse of Gon’s skin. 

Honey releases clouds—Gon’s fingers are fumbling with the doorknob, struggling to open the damn thing, before Killua’s hand releases itself from his hip, and slowly clasps over Gon’s struggling hand, turning the knob successfully, and they’re stumbling inside Gon’s room. 

Darkness, and light, all at once. Safety. 

Killua barely has a chance to shut the door before Gon is kissing his lips this time—hands cupping his cheeks and pulling him closer. Killua’s own hands travel, dancing along the curves of Gon’s body and the supple skin. And they flow lower and lower, unoccupied with a certain destination as Killua focuses on the way his mouth fits against Gon’s like a puzzle piece. 

And just like that, Gon is giving Killua open-mouthed kisses. Kisses that delve from just open mouth to something more, until Killua is gripping Gon’s skin, and Gon is groaning from the pressure of it all. Until Gon is pulling Killua back, back to where his bed is, not once releasing their shared kiss. They wander blindly, until the back of his knees smack against the mattress, and Gon is falling back, with Killua still on him.

Until Killua’s lips break from Gon’s, and they stare at each other in the silence filled with nothing but their breathing. A removal of a shirt, and then another follows. Clumsy, unknowing hands traverse planes of honey. The gripping of sheets upon the meeting of lips on skin. Shaky, shallow breaths. Shuffling—unbuttoning and pulling down and lifting up and gripping skin. 

Feeling each dip and crevice of skin. Amatuer hands, uncoordinated movements. Soft laughter, gentle chiding. Whimpers, followed by a litany of moans. Pressing, movement: slow and soft and unsure. More confidence. Louder, and louder, fingers digging into flesh and leaving angry streaks of red. 

Stilling, low huffing—silence. 

When Killua wakes up, it’s to the gentle feeling of fingers combing through his messy, knotted locks of hair. The fingers run in repeated motions, and Killua dimly realizes it’s Gon who has awoken first—face still pressed into his chest, their legs a tangled mess of limbs, one hand entwined with his own.

Gon seems to sense the change, because he shifts, removing his face from Killua’s chest and looking up from beneath his lashes. There’s a tired, blissful expression on his face—sweet and tender and reserved only for him. A gentle flush, too; one that creates an equally light one on Killua’s skin. 

“Good morning, _corazón._ ”

A smile breaks onto Killua’s face, and he presses his lips to Gon’s—it’s meant to be a chaste thing, and yet their lips linger for a few seconds longer, innocently. 

“Good morning, baby.” 

Gon hums, nuzzling further back into Killua’s chest—taking full advantage of the lack of clothing between them.

A comfortable silence, one that Killua is content with keeping, but a question is burning at the tip of his tongue. 

“Hey, Gon,” He starts, and he feels Gon look up, just a little. “You’ve been saying it for a while, but what’s _corazón_ mean?”

There’s a hum that vibrates at the base of Gon’s throat, deep in thought. 

“I think—” He starts, frowning to himself. “I think it meant _my heart_? It’s been so long since I had to really think about Spanish. It’s getting harder to remember phrases.” 

Killua gives a weak hum, heart stirring in his chest, his hands coming up to run down Gon’s spine. He hides his blush by pressing Gon closer to his chest.

“You’ve been calling me _that?_ ” 

Gon sputters, pushing against Killua. “ _That’s_ your reaction? Be more endeared, or something.” 

“I am!” 

“You sound anything but endeared!”

“I’m embarrassed that you were calling me something so sincere and here I was being _lame_.” 

A giggle rises past Gon’s lips, and his fingers thrum against Killua’s, looking up into Killua’s eyes. “Baby is a cute nickname, too.”

Red covers the expanse of Killua’s face, and he averts his eyes before Gon speaks up again—a gentle murmur meant only for Killua’s ears: “I like it.” 

The comment leaves Killua a little winded. 

There’s something so soft, so sweet and gentle and kindled between them—something different, and sad, about the entire world being in shambles, while Killua holds onto Gon like this. It’s different. It’s not broken pavement and bloodied cement. It’s not collapsed buildings and shattered glass. Not rusty, molded infrastructure. 

_This_ is light, and heavenly. This is them building their own world within themselves, in this shabby prison cage, in this run-down prison. When Gon’s fingers intertwine and find purchase within Killua’s own—it’s like every bad thing has never occured. It’s warmth, and home, and a new beginning—it’s him finding a reason to count again.

And just like that, with the realization there, Killua’s world begins spinning, and the ticking starts again.

Gon had another scavenge planned—roughly one and a half months after the last. 

And he’d left in a flurry, stuffing a little of everything into his bag, generously taking the small meal Killua had prepared for him—kissing him on the lips with a small smile and bidding his goodbye at the gate. Killua had stood and watched his form recede further and further into the distance, with a heavy heart and worry gnawing away at his insides. 

Nanika. He hadn’t left because his trust in the camp had deteriorated, just a little. 

He wasn’t confident. He wasn’t confident in leaving Nanika and Alluka alone without him near—not for such a long period of time. 

So he’d declined Gon when he had asked. And that was fine. Gon had held him and whispered words of encouragement. That it was okay Killua was nervous about leaving his little sisters after an event like that. They’d spent the days leading up to Gon’s departure together, hands entwined and always close. 

But now it had been eleven days. 

Eleven days. 

Eleven days on a scavenge that was supposed to be roughly seven days at most. 

Gon was just supposed to go west, past that interstate highway and over onto the other side. There were some places he’d missed out on scavenging—he’d said. Some places he’d wanted to check out, an area that had been overrun by Screamers. 

Eleven days.

Killua had done the math on a small section of a wall in the camp. Had taken a sharp rock and tried his best to remember how to do multiplication by hand. Had scratched on eleven, and then twenty four, and crossed everything. Four times one, four times two—cross it. 

In his distress, Killua had found the math to his worries—that Gon had been gone for two-hundred-sixty-four hours, and still hadn’t arrived. The hours kept sweeping by, with no intention of stopping. 

Gon still hadn’t returned. 

Two-hundred-sixty-four hours. 

On day eight, Killua had told himself that Gon was maybe taking a little longer because of the weather. On day nine, Killua began to feel a worry simmer within him. On day ten, Killua lay awake in his bed, Alluka and Nanika sound asleep to his right. 

On day eleven? Killua felt the nausea creep up on him. 

“Brother.” Alluka is looking at him from across the table. She snaps him out of his thoughts. “You haven’t touched your food.”

Killua looks down. 

She wasn’t wrong. 

The cabbage and tomatoes sit untouched, and a piece of bread has just a single bite in it. 

He gives her a warm smile. “Sorry. ‘M just not hungry.” 

Alluka frowns and sighs, shaking her head. “You’re worried.”

“When am I not?”

“He’s fine, you know.” 

Killua stills, before she continues.

“He’s just running a little late—but he’s okay. It’s like when you went on a scavenge last time with him. It took you a day or two longer to arrive than expected. But you were okay in the end.” 

“I know, I just—”

“It’s fine to be worried,” she interrupts, “But not eating harms you. So eat.” 

She pushes the poor excuse of a salad closer to him, and smiles at Nanika, cooing to her that she ate a lot and she’s proud of her. Nanika shakily smiles through red lips and stained teeth, and Killua takes a stained cloth to dab at her lips and clean off the blood. 

The lunchroom doors open.

Killua doesn’t think too much of it, doesn’t really hear it, but he _does_ hear the gasps of Gon’s name—and he’s turning quickly, dropping the piece of bread he’d picked up and stumbling to stand. His foot tangles in the table, but he doesn’t care, fingers pushing against the table top and knees quivering.

“Gon!” Killua’s voice is like the sound of a piercing shot in the silence. 

_Appearance. Take in his appearance_. Gon’s skin is covered in a bit of dirt, and his clothes show a bit of tatterting that wasn’t previously there. Killua isn’t sure if it’s from the wearability decreasing or something else. No scratches, no bites—just grime and bright eyes. 

Gon is _alive_.

The relief of it all pools in his stomach—fills his senses in a euphoria Killua struggles to describe. It seeps into him, and he feels his lungs start working, and the weight on his shoulders slip off. And Killua can’t help it, can’t help the way his hands are reaching out and grasping the material of Gon’s bomber jacket. 

He can’t help the way his fingers tighten and pull forward.

Can’t help the way their lips lock together and he’s shutting his eyes and furrowing his brows into the kiss—emotions brewing and heavy. 

Gon breaks the kiss with a gasp.

“Kil—”

“Do you have _any_ idea how worried I’ve been?”

“Ah—”

“It’s been eleven days! What the hell took you so long?” 

He looks a little winded. “You counted the days?”

Killua manages to frown even in his frenzied state. “Of _course_ I counted the days, idiot! You were supposed to be here in a week and instead you took nearly _two!_ ”

Gon averts his gaze and looks toward the floor with a flush, before removing his hands from his back and showing a small arrangement of flowers. Some are a little droopy—tired and lacking water. But most are still perked up, breathing its remanence of life. 

“I got these for you.” He scratches his nape and sticks out his tongue in embarrassment. “I wanted to bring something nice. For you.” 

All at once, Killua’s heart swoops and drops and comes back up again—stutters pathetically as he reddens to the same shade of the red flowers.

The flowers are all actually common weeds: weeds he doesn’t know the names of and doesn’t particularly remember well. But they’re pretty—wrapped in an old, faded newspaper. Gingerly, Killua reaches out and takes them—soft hands deftly touching the paper in fear of crumbling it. 

“They’re really nice…” 

Gon grins, and leans forward to press a chaste kiss to Killua’s lips. Gentle and tender and loving. His hands wrap around Killua’s, tightening just for a second as an act of comfort. 

“Sorry for worrying you.” 

“Mmm, I’d really hope so.”

Killua can feel everyone’s gazes zero in on them. Drink up their positions and make conclusions—he can practically hear the gears turning and clogs ticking. The chains rattle. Some stare wide-eyed, others just shake their heads. 

He can feel Zushi, and Knuckle, and Shoot staring. _Ikalgo_. 

“Sit with us?” Killua asks, and Gon nods. 

As they take their seats, conversation resumes within the lunchroom between refugees, and Killua finds himself at ease. He’s able to stomach the idea of eating—and bringing the sliced tomato to his lips is simple. With Gon next to him, knowing he’s alright and alive, the anxiety quells. 

“Did you find anything out west?” Alluka asks, looking up from her meal. 

Gon’s form slouches a little and he looks down, shaking his head. “No, there was nothing. I went through two towns that were previously riddled with Screamers. They’ve been scavenged out. Couldn’t even find any junk.”

The mood grows somber, before Alluka claps her hands.

“And so you thought that you’d bring my brother a wild flower arrangement instead?”

Just as quickly as the somber mood had come, it fades, and Gon’s face reddens—he stumbles to articulate himself, and Killua fights the blush rising on his own cheeks, stifling a laugh by biting the inside of his cheek.

“Killua.”

When Gon pushes him inside his room, Killua is expecting fun. 

He’s expecting Gon to tighten his grip and kiss him. For Gon to shut the door and laugh and look at him with tender eyes that hold more. For him to take the flowers Killua holds and set them down somewhere else.

And he does, he does tighten his grip—his eyes do hold a tender look—but for a completely different reason. 

Killua stares at him as he digs through his bag. “I found—I found this while passing by the town.” 

He’s taking out a piece of paper—newer and unfaded. It’s not crumpled, or stained an ugly color. It looks crisp and new, and when he slowly hands it to Killua, he can feel the nausea set in. The way his heart drops into the pit of his stomach, and the lunch he’d just eaten seems to threaten to come right back up. 

The happiness he’d just felt moments ago? Rotten and grotesque. 

Because there, in big bold letters, reads _Missing Person: Killua Zoldyck_. 

_Age, 25. Height, estimated at 185cm. Pale skin. Blue eyes. White hair._

Smack in the middle of the paper is a picture of him during his high school years. It’s supposed to act as an approximation. An estimation. A guide to what he looks like now.

The panic rises and falls. It coils around his lungs, and has barbed edges that puncture holes of fear within him. It’s laced with poison that makes him break out in a cold sweat, and his breath stutters—locked at his throat and unable to circulate. Gon pulls him towards the bed and keeps him close. 

“They’re—They’re still looking? It’s been nine years, Gon. Nine years and they won’t stop and I can’t escape them—”

“Killua, it’s alright. You’re safe here.” 

“It’s one thing for people to say they’re looking. Or to think about it. But it’s another to _see_ it. And they’re still looking. Oh, fuck, Gon—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Killua—”

“They just won’t stop looking for me and— and I just—I don’t want you to get caught up in this mess.” 

The words tumble useless from his mouth. They fill the air and settle into the dust and cobwebs at the corner of the room. There’s no escape, there never has been an escape. Everything that was vaguely reminiscent of sanctuary came crumbling down from the foundation. Because that’s how it would go.

They’d look for him. Look for him, and find him, and take him, at whatever cost. 

He feels close to breaking—Killua puts his face in his hands and looks down, seated at the edge of the bed, the crown of his head pressed into Gon’s chest.

“Everything was going so good here.” 

Fingers thread through his hair in an effort to soothe him. 

Gon's voice is gentle. “And they’re still going fine, right?” 

Killua slowly lowers his hands to look up at Gon, who’s smiling wide. His features are bright—cheerful and simple.

“Yeah, but they’re—” 

“Killua.” Gon’s voice sounds oddly similar to when he’s giving orders around the camp. His eyes harden and he looks down, brows furrowed. “I told you, you _are_ safe here. No one is going to hurt you, Nanika, or Alluka.”

“They’re going to come here, Gon. They’re going to come and look and—”

He fails to register the way Gon’s fingers skim his skin. The way they caress and move up the planes, until they’re brushing his jaw and his cheek and Gon is leaning forward, pressing a tender kiss to Killua’s lips. 

It works like magic, almost, and Killua never grows tired of feeling his lips against Gon. The anxieties lessen, just a little, but they lessen, and Gon is leaning back to look into Killua’s eyes before pressing their foreheads together. A breath is taken, before a gentle sigh tumbles past Killua’s mouth.

“You know,” Gon starts, and his hands reach down to grasp Killua’s—both of their hands calloused and rough after so many years of fighting to survive, “You’re safe here. They can’t get you here.”

Killua doesn’t speak a word. Gon continues. 

“Just breathe.” 

One breaths, two breaths. 

Hearts beating together. 

Seconds tick by. 

_Killua counts the seconds._

His fingers tighten around Gon’s, just for a moment. He breathes in his proximity, and the warmth of his skin. 

“Better?” Gon’s voice is barely a whisper. 

Killua nods, finally looking up to meet his eyes. 

A blaze of warmth—a campfire, with flames licking at the edges. Killua thinks that’s what Gon’s eyes look like. Something that casts a lot of light. 

Gon’s lips crease up into a ghost of a smile, and he’s coming forward to press another kiss, this time to his forehead. 

When he looks at Killua with such a bright smile, Killua can’t help the way his own mouth turns upward, too. 

“It’s going to be okay.” Gon says. 

Yeah, it’s going to be okay.

_He wants to believe those words._

_Killua really wants to believe those words._

Gon’s words—uttered softly and gently and with every ounce of love he could manage. 

The words that told Killua he was safe. That they wouldn’t figure out that he was here, in this prison. That they wouldn’t find him, and kill Nanika, and take him. That they wouldn’t leave Alluka alone, missing her twin sister and older brother. 

Killua so desperately wants to cling onto Gon’s words and _believe_. 

But he knows. 

There’s a small voice at the back of his head that tells him there is no escape. 

That no matter how far or how long he runs—he will get caught, and taken, and Nanika will get killed because Killua failed to protect her the very day the virus spread. The voice tells him he failed, that he continues to fail, that no matter how quietly he runs, no matter how careful he is—they _will_ find him. 

And he’ll lose everything. 

He swallows dryly. 

Open his eyes, stares up at the ceiling. 

A shift in the blankets, and Killua’s eyes avert down—glancing at Gon’s sleeping form beside him, pressed into his chest and legs tangled in his, fingers intertwined and holding Killua’s own calloused ones. 

_—Gon had stopped having nightmares as often as he used to around the time Killua had started to sleep with him—_

_He’ll lose everything._

Nanika, and Alluka, and now Gon. 

There’s an uncertainty of how much he’ll lose after that—after losing his sisters and—

And whatever Gon is. 

A boyfriend? A lover? Someone to hold tighter while the world falls further into ruin? 

Killua isn’t sure. 

What will he lose after them? His sanity, perhaps. 

He’ll lose his sense of self, and his autonomy. Because that’s what his parents _do_. They shape you into something else until who you were isn’t of importance and is discarded like trash. Because attending high school had only been a formality, and as soon as he was done he was going to be forced to enlist. 

The tears well in Killua’s eyes. 

He doesn’t want to lose any of them. 

Doesn’t want to lose Nanika, or Alluka, or Gon—or the pathetic attempt at life he has here. 

One shuddering breath, quiet and quivering in every sense. He shuts his eyes, in an effort to will himself to sleep, and feels a single tear escape. 

In the darkness of their room, he grips Gon’s hand tighter. 

It happens when Killua is grabbing lunch with Gon—when Killua is sitting at the small table in the lunchroom, hand stretched across the table to hold Gon’s hand, a tired smile gracing his lips, and he’s bringing the final spoonful of rice to his lips, all movements on autopilot and none of his own doing. 

_He’s tired._

_He hasn’t really registered that he’s even eating._

Recently, there had been an upsurging of Screamers at all the nearby towns. Gon had been unable to even leave the base, much to Killua’s relief, because the outside was swarming with infected people, the roads chock full of dust and ash. It smelled of rain, and fire, and rotten corpses. 

That smell was a never good sign. 

They’d been patrolling twice as often, more people keeping watch of all corners of the base—front, and back, and sides. No one was sent outside, but still—they kept watch. Armed and ready. Just in case. Just in case of anything that came their way. After all, Screamers came in different sizes, and while regular human height was most common, that didn’t mean mutations didn’t occur. 

That there weren’t exceptions to the rules. 

Which is why, while the sky had darkened considerably, and most of the refugees were staying indoors just as Gon had requested, they’re surprised for Ikalgo to radio in from the tower that two people had arrived at the gate. Nearly unrecognizable, but _them_ , and Gon had stood from the table quickly, with a smile too big and hands trembling with excitement. 

“They’re back?”

A click of the radio.

“Yeah, they’re coming in now.” 

Another click. 

Gon turns to Killua, eyes practically sparkling, and he’s gripping his hand, pulling him up and out of his seat. The clamouring to stand makes heads turn, some looking anxious, but otherwise soothed by the smile fixated on Gon’s face. Their steps are fast, quick and hurried—rushing to the front of the camp. 

They’re here.

 _Whoever “they” are,_ Killua thinks. 

They pass rows and rows of rooms, corridor after corridor until the front entrance is visible, and Gon is pushing the doors open quickly. 

The gates are just closing when Gon tugs Killua a little hurry, and an excited laugh escapes his lips. 

Killua can’t help but give a fond chuckle, too. 

“Kurapika! Leorio!” 

“Gon!” The taller man bellows. 

The taller man is shrugging off the large bag on his back and running forward on trembling legs, and Gon is forced to let go of Killua’s hand as the man grabs Gon and pulls him close for a hug. There’s scruff growing on his face, and a few cuts decorating the arms exposed by his rolled up, grimey sleeves. 

Another man, blonde and smaller, grabs the discarded bag with a smile, trudging forward. 

“Gon—God, it’s so good to see you again.” 

“Leorio, I can’t breathe.” 

The man, Leorio, steps back with a quiet chuckle, and his eyes sweep Gon’s body, nodding to himself. 

“You look healthy.” 

Gon’s wrings his hands together. “We’ve been making strides with farming and agriculture. How did things go out there?”

A tired sigh, and Leorio brings a hand to massage his temple. “Shit as usual. We gathered some supplies, found lots of medicine and first aids at some local hospitals and clinics that were left locked up. Ran into some trouble on the way here, by the way.” 

“Leorio wouldn’t stop complaining about wanting to help everyone we came across—”

“Kurapika!”

Laughter. “It’s true. You looked ready to cry when you saw that mother down the street asking if we had spare items for her two children.”

“And I’m assuming you gave them some supplies?” Gon asks softly. 

Averted eyes, and the rubbing of his nape—Leorio nods.

“Of course he did, Gon. He’s a doctor.”

“ _Was_ , Kurapika. That doesn’t matter anymore.”

Gon smiles, intertwining his fingers with Killua’s, and pulling him closer to him. “We’re kinda on a shortage here, glad you guys found some items either way. I haven’t been able to go out and scavenge because of the hoards increasing.” 

Leorio nods in understanding. “It was pretty shit while we were tryna get back here. Lots more of those eight foot beasts lurking around in the cities than a year ago.” 

“And some of the cities seem to be militarizing.” 

Gon’s eyes widen. “Seriously?” He pauses to look out past the gates. “C’mon, let’s get inside—the skies are getting darker. More ash is coming, I can smell it. Let’s get this stuff...—Killua, c’mere, help me with this.”

There’s a stilling in the conversation. A change in pace. Killua suddenly feels three eyes on him, two which are extra sharp and not Gon’s own.

“Gon—who is he?” Kurapika’s question is careful. 

A blissfully unaware smile laces Gon’s lips, grinning wide and eyes crinkling into crescents. Killua thinks this is the wrong time to be admiring Gon’s smile. 

“This is Killua!” 

Killua straightens his posture, looking at Leorio and Kurapika with a smile of his own. 

“He’s my partner!” Gon’s voice is cheery. 

Red bursts on Killua’s cheeks, and he looks over, eyes wide, noticing a flush coating Gon’s cheeks too. 

“We ran into each other while I was scavenging a year and a half ago.” 

Scrambling to make a good impression, Killua extends his hand out—ready to shake their hands and introduce him—because these people seem important to Gon. 

“Killua, this is Leorio and Kurapika, they’re good friends of mine. We met when the outbreak first started.” 

Killua nods, gazing at Kurapika and Leorio. “’m Killua, it’s—”

Kurapika speaks over him. “You’re the one they’re looking for.”

_What?_

He freezes, staring at them in shock. 

Gon frowns. 

No one speaks for a moment. 

“Who?” Gon’s question is quiet and wary.

“The military.” Leorio starts, redirecting his attention to Gon. “I told you they were militarizing the city right? They’re putting out wanted posters for _him_.”

Slowly, Killua lets his arm fall down. 

His vision warps, it turns and twists and the silence becoming a piercing noise. 

Faintly, he realizes Gon is talking. 

“Killua has been here for a year and a half, and he’s helped around a lot. He’s not a danger.” 

“We were interrogated, Gon. By those military people.” Leorio says, and Kurapika jumps in.

“They were the trouble we ran into when trying to get here. There’s posters all over the place. They’re pulling people aside and telling them that _he’s_ important, and that if he gets found, the base will open for everyone who needs aid.” 

“We’re not turning him in.” 

An irritated sigh. “Gon, we’re not saying to turn him in. But people are looking!”

“Killua isn’t a danger!”

“Gon—”

The furrow on Gon’s brow deepens. “You just finished joking about how who we were no longer matters! We know that they’re looking. I’ve seen the posters myself and—”

“I’m not here to cause trouble.” Killua, who had been silent throughout the argument, finally speaks up. Gon grips his hand tighter. “If you want an explanation, I’ll give it. They’re looking for me because I’m their son, and I ran from them when this shitfest first started.” 

Kurapika frowns. “Why are you running?”

One breath. Take a moment. Confidence.

“One of my sisters is infected.” Bewildered faces—Killua continues. “But she’s conscious.” 

“You’re harboring an infected in this camp?” 

He grinds his teeth: reminds himself that they just don’t know yet. “She’s not just some mindless corpse.” 

“She’s infected!”

“Gon? Did you know?”

Their voices grow louder and clamour over each other—shrill and worried. Killua manages to take a breath and break away from the anger consuming him. 

_They just don’t understand, yet._

“Do you want to meet her? She’s in a room with my other sister.”

Killua’s voice is fast and hurried and all the more anxious.

_They just need to see. To understand. Nanika is still human._

Hesitance. 

Leorio nods, and Gon’s face still holds a frown, not once letting go of Killua’s hand and turning to lead them back into the main building. It’s silent—awkward and quiet and an odd energy buzzing around them. 

“I keep running from them because they’ll kill her if they find us.” 

He’s met with no response. The double doors creek open, and they’re heading down the hallways to Killua’s cellroom. There are lots of people out and about, some wave at Kurapika and Leorio—bid them hello or welcome back. They just nod and smile, their attention still completely directed to Killua.

“And I don’t want to leave them behind. So the only option is to run.”

When they arrive at Killua's door, Gon lets go of his hand, mouthing words of encouragement—or maybe they’re words telling him he doesn’t have to do this, that he doesn’t have to prove his worth. Killua doesn’t know—can’t decide which he means to say.

The door opens, and Nanika is there, sitting on the bed with Alluka. 

“Nanika,” Killua’s voice is soft, and she looks up, face contorting into a smile. “Nanika, big brother brought some people who wanted to see you.”

A frown forms on Alluka’s face as she takes in the two strangers at the door. 

“Brother?”

“It’s fine, Alluka. They want to see.”

“See?” Alluka asks, voice skeptical, as Killua reaches forward and lets his fingers thread through Nanika’s long wisps of hair. 

“They said that our parents are out looking on the streets for us now. They want to see Nanika.” 

Leorio and Kurapika stand by the door, unsure of whether to enter, but Gon’s steps don’t hesitate, and he takes long strides inside, smile gentle and fingers grazing Nanika’s hand to soothe her. The two older men shuffle in, just a little—watch as Nanika smiles at Gon and her fingers tremble to hold his hand. 

Her skin, greyer than it once was—blue veins more prominent than before. Her nails are long, but well-kept, and it seems Alluka had cleaned her face and hands from the blood that had smeared all over her during lunch. Her eyes, dazed and just a little empty, shift from Gon to Killua, and then to Leorio and Kurapika. She looks over at Killua. 

“ _Kiruah_ —” Always discordant. An ugly ring he never grows tired of hearing. _God_ , it soothes him to no end. 

Nanika’s voice, even if it lacks life—it’s still faintly _her_. 

“Nanika, why don’t you say hi to these people? They came all this way just to see you.” 

Killua’s not sure why he’s so set on proving Nanika’s innocence to them. Not sure why it matters so much to prove she still holds some semblance of humanity within her, despite what the long-since-healed scar on her foot says and the state of her body tells. He doesn’t owe them an explanation. 

Perhaps it’s the way they regarded her. The fact that he wanted to dispel their fears. The horror in their eyes and rigidness of their stance. Perhaps it was to leave a good impression for Gon—with what little he had left to work with, now that they knew he was a Zoldyck. That Killua _still_ is a Zoldyck, no matter how hard he attempts to relinquish the title. 

Nanika looks at them. Looks at Leorio and Kurapika carefully, before giving her best smile—one similar to the smile she reserves only for Killua and Alluka and now Gon. One that makes her lips twitch and the corners of her mouth spasm uncontrollably with the effort. 

_She’s still trying._

Killua’s heart does a flip—sinks and rises and falls all over again, because he adores her so much. 

“ _He...Hello. Hello…_ ” She tilts her head. Gon gives a small laugh and praises her. Killua’s heart swells at the interaction. 

Leorio takes the first step in, eyes wide with now-filled wonder. He looks at her, and then at Alluka, before looking back at Nanika. Kurapika’s eyes hold reservation—posture still stiff—but he steps closer, shutting the door behind him carefully and not all the way, as if somehow convinced, that if need be, he can bolt out of the room without a second’s stallment. 

“ _Hello,_ ” Nanika repeats, voice wavering slightly. “ _It’s a puh—pleasure to meet yuh—you_.”

Softly, slowly, Killua is helping her up, until Nanika is no longer leaning against the headboard but instead forward, and she moves her hands, pulling the sheets off to shakily stand and greet Leorio. She stumbles a little past Killua and Gon, dragging one foot and struggling to move—but she’s getting there. 

All the reluctance leaves Leorio right then and there. Killua can see it. The way his face contorts sadly before relaxing, and he’s letting her come into his arms. Tan arms wrap around her baggy-clothed body—careful not to grip too tight. She hums softly, pulling away and trying to get out of his grasp. 

The wonderment never ceases. 

Nanika tilts her head and looks past Leorio, eyes locking onto Kurapika’s, and she looks at him. Just stands and stares. 

Not a single muscle twitches, but Kurapika looks apprehensive all the same. 

“ _Hu—Hi. Hi.”_ She smiles once again, as big as she can manage, soft and tender and sweet—Killua’s little sister. “ _Nice—Nuh—Nice to meet you._ ” 

Leorio’s hand comes up once again, and he’s crouching down to meet Nanika at eye level. Her attention shifts back to him, gentle eyes gaze into hollow ones, before his eyes redirect over to Killua, and Nanika is coming closer to let his hand pat her hair. 

“What happened?”

Killua’s posture stiffens, hands anxious fiddling with each other before he responds. 

“She got bit.”

The room is quiet as Nanika makes a sound akin to a hum from Leorio’s touch—a gurgle low in her throat. There’s pity in Leorio’s eyes, something more in Kurapika’s. 

“When?” 

“The first day. We waited until sundown to leave the school after we heard the screaming stop. She…” Killua swallows dryly. “She was bit when we were walking down the block.” 

Gon’s hand is softly entwined with Killua’s, a soothing pressure as the pads of his fingers run over his dorsal and tighten just a little before releasing. Fingers that skim over skin before wrapping around his own digits to calm him. And it works. The warmth of Gon’s hand lull his heart. 

“What was she bitten by?” Kurapika comes closer, steps careful. 

A beat of silence. Alluka speaks up. “A rabid dog. It was infected—we didn’t realize until we saw it foaming after it bit her.” 

Kurapika takes Nanika’s hand gently, and offers a small smile. She gurgles in response.

“How long?”

Killua takes a breath.

“We—we don’t know.” And Leorio frowns, before Killua elaborates. “It was already night when—when she turned. The time wasn’t my concern, and it’s not like I could gauge it anyway.”

“But you assume—”

“We assume it was an hour.” Alluka says, sighing. “The incubation period. We know—others have turned in front of us before.” 

“And the constant,” Leorio says, “Is the time. Most people turn within the hour. Weaker ones have less time. The longest I’ve seen is an hour and ten minutes.”

Quiet breathing. Killua sitting on the edge of the bed, Gon holding his hand. Alluka is sitting up on the other side. Both Leorio and Kurapika are fascinated with Nanika—the softness of her gaze despite the dead glint of her eyes. The pale skin, and ugly veins, and twitching fingers. 

“ _Ah—_ ” Nanika starts, voice weak. “ _I’m oh—ohkay_.”

She turns her attention to Killua and Gon, too. “ _I’m ohkay._ ” The words are firmer this time. 

There’s a sad look on Kurapika’s face that just won’t fade. It grows exponentially, with every passing.

Reminiscence is held in that gaze. 

“So it’s clear?” 

A nod. 

“You’re absolutely sure?” Killua’s voice holds hesitancy. 

Shoot nods again. “Not a single person out there.”

Knuckle turns to Killua, setting down their worn bags. “Would they give up after a month?” 

Killua frowns—looks at the floor in thought. 

Would they? Would his family stop looking for him after only a month? It was a waste of resources and supplies, sure, but they had plenty of those. And why now? After nine years. Nine years of barely any noise, any indication—besides the posters. And even those had stopped after a while. But this sudden flare up. This sudden insistence to look for him. 

_He doesn’t—he’s not sure._

“I don’t think they would,” he says, swallowing. “But we’ve been stuck in this prison since the ash worsened. And it’s cleared up now. We should take advantage and scavenge.”

“Killua is right.” Gon’s voice is set. “We need to get out there and scavenge. Supplies are starting to look a little dwindled. I want to make sure we get more things before another thing like this occurs.” 

Knuckle nods. “Alright, then. The three cities over are clear. We didn’t run into too many Screamers, it’s been cleared out for the most part. When are you heading out?”

It’s an unspoken rule that Killua will go with Gon wherever he goes. Killua’s trust has slowly returned, with Nanika’s space in the camp growing more friendly. There was less fear, less apprehension. She could wander freely now—with the mask on. But it was a big step in the right direction. And for that, Killua was thankful. 

Gon looks at Killua, a silent agreement shared between them. 

“First thing in the morning.” 

Shoot frowns, “That’s only in a few hours. Are you both ready to travel to several cities for supplies?” 

A nod from Gon. “I’ve been talking with Kurapika and Leorio. They’re coming with us, and we’ll split ways to cover more ground. We’ll take two radios for when we split.” Gon pauses. “That means I’m leaving you both in charge as usual.”

Loud laughter erupts from Knuckle as he digs through his bag and takes out the gun and ammo. “Here. This is what I have left.”

He hands the gun to Gon, along with the ammo. Gon turns the small package of bullets over. A grin forms on his face. “Used some rounds?” 

Knuckle huffs, and Shoot cracks a smile, placing his hand on Knuckle’s shoulder. “He wasted four bullets on rubble because he got startled.” 

They all share a laugh.

And just like that, they separate ways. Shoot and Knuckle head inside to their room, and Killua is left to stand idly with Gon before they make their way to the lunch room to pack whatever foods were left. Pack foods, and some water, and then head to arrange their weapons. 

Only a few hours.

They pass quickly. Killua counts them in his head.

In a way, he dreads it. Dreads stepping outside the safety the prison has provided. Dreads seeing how the towns are fairing. Dreads to look another Screamer in the face and take the shoot. 

While they’re packing, Gon hands him the gun. 

“I want you to have it.” His voice is soft. 

Killua frowns. It’s heavy in his hand, the grip worn and the barrel cold. He stuffs it in his back pocket regardless. 

“Why?”

Gon smiles as he collects the few arrows left and the crossbow—stashes a knife to the strap on his belt. 

“Dunno. Just felt like you might need it more than me.” 

He shoves Gon, makes a noise of indignation. “What the hell?” Gon snorts. “As if I’m shit with a knife.” 

A tan hand is coming up and tapping his nose, playful and light, and Gon winks at him. 

“Yeah, but now we both have long-range and short-range. Just in case—”

“In case the ash brought mutations.”

Hazel eyes meet ocean blue ones. Gon nods.

“We don’t know what’s out there. I’m hoping we don’t run into anything bad,” He gives a laugh, hand rubbing at his nape, “It’s not like we can afford spending resources. But I’m hoping we’ll find more good than bad.”

It’s the glint that sets Killua off. The way Gon chuckles nervously, and rubs his neck, and scratches right below the corner of his lip. It’s the little ticks that Killua has learned and memorized and ingrained into his head that have him coming forward and bringing Gon into a kiss—slow and with every inch of love he could spare poured into it. 

He breaks it with little effort, a flush coating both their cheeks. 

Lips just inches apart, Killua looks into Gon’s eyes, his voice barely above a whisper: “You’re nervous.” 

Gon’s hands snake into Killua’s and hold them tightly. Just slightly, Killua can feel their unsure tremble. “Yeah—yeah, I guess I kind of am.” 

Killua presses another chaste kiss against his lips. “Don’t be. Why‘re you nervous?”

“Dunno. I just—I have a weird feeling.” 

The door to the supply room is opening before Killua has the chance to soothe Gon, and Leorio and Kurapika are stepping inside to grab their own supplies. They’ve changed into something more appropriate—longer sleeves and cargo pants and boots. Bags and satchels ready. 

Kurapika is pocketing more knives than Killua can keep track of, opening the drawer to the .45 caliber and sighing. He turns to Killua. “No ammo?”

Killua shakes his head. Kurapika grabs the gun anyway. “Just in case we find ammo.” Killua can’t help but let the incredulous laugh bubble out of him—it’d be a miracle to find ammo at all. 

Leorio is stashing arrows into his bag—fifteen arrows, three seemingly dangerously close to snapping from constant use. He holds the longbow in his hands, turns it over once and then twice. The bow slides well against his broad back, and he straightens his posture to accommodate the long weapon against his spine. 

“The mood is a little solemn, isn’t it?” 

Gon is holding the door open as they all file out, hand reaching into his pocket to take out his radio. “Here, Killua is bringing his radio too. This way we can stay in contact. We’ll split once we reach the city to cover more ground.”

He didn’t address Leorio’s question.

Alluka is standing by the entrance of the prison building with Nanika, expression unreadable—but Killua knows. He understands. He leaves Gon’s side, just for a moment. He comes up to her, takes her face in his hand and presses a kiss to her forehead. Their eyes meet. 

“I’ll be back soon.” The words ring heavy.

“Okay.” She sounds breathless.

Nanika is tugging at Killua’s sleeve, staring up at him from behind the mask. Gentle alabaster hands come and wrap around her, bringing her close. 

“Big brother is coming back in a bit, alright, Nanika?”

“ _Oh—Ohkay, Kiruah.”_

They bid their goodbyes to Alluka and Nanika, but Nanika is reaching out and gripping Gon’s hand. For a moment, he stills, and Killua watches carefully. Nanika’s form struggles to come forward—struggles to come close to Gon. He crouches down to her level, wraps her into an embrace as well.

“I’ll come back soon, Nanika.”

She doesn’t speak.

Until she does.

“ _Be… Be careful, Gon.”_

His eyes soften, and he nods, unwrapping himself from her weak embrace. 

Daybreak comes just as soon as they step out of the building. 

The walk into the city is simple, and done without many complications. 

They pass caved streets, rubble of asphalt and ash and dirt—drowned subways, collapsed walls and roofs and buildings. Green—green _everywhere_. Grass, and weeds, and vines, and trees. Nature’s overgrowth and overtaking of the city. Green dances within the concrete of the walls and the metal of the foundations. It forces the remaining structures to creak and groan from its unrelenting pressure. 

The sky is a clear, pretty blue. 

Different—in a sense that the ash has subsided. Different—in a sense that the smell of death no longer clung to the air. 

Cars, worn and rusted, pile the streets that haven’t collapsed. Most windows are smashed, some doors open. Empty. They don’t bother rummaging through the cars with soaked seats and open compartments. Killua steps over littered, faded newspapers. They’re all stuck on the same year. 

For this city, and the rest, time has stopped. 

“We can split here.” Gon says, pointing to the sign just barely hanging from the intersection. 

_8th street._

Kurapika eyes the four-way street. “Leorio and I will take right. You and Killua take the left.” 

Killua turns to the left. It looks the same as the street to the right. “We’ll meet back here around sunset?” 

“Yeah. We’re better together, and we can find a building to stay the night. I’ll radio you both to start coming back once it gets later into the day.”

Gon grabs Killua’s hand as they begin walking away from Leorio and Kurapika. “Stay safe—the both of you.”

Leorio gives a grin, wide and playful. “Don’t worry about us. This is practically second nature now. You two, keep safe.”

They separate without another word.

Killua finds it a little odd. 

Well, the city has always been odd. Exploring the streets that once held familiarity is always odd. All that’s left is a distant picture—a fading memory that doesn’t seem too right every time he thinks about it too hard. 

Vines grow on powerlines. They tangle and reach up towards the sky, grasping the unused wires and stringing across to another pole. Pieces of debris from fallen buildings—glass, and cement, and sheetrock—sit on the ground, forming dust. 

But what’s most odd isn’t the state of the infrastructure. 

Because that’s been gone—for a long time now. 

No, what Killua finds odd is the lack of life. No birds in the sky. No people on the streets. Nothing within the eyes view. Just silence, filled in only by their steps down the road. And he doesn’t mean it in a reminiscent type of way. 

Cold chills run down his spine. 

There’s—there are always birds somewhere. Crows. Squawks and chirps of their cries as they fly above the mess of the world. There are people—Screamers. Usually. But it’s empty now. 

They pass a bakery. 

In his apprehension, Killua draws his gun, keeps it angled low and finger off the trigger.. 

“Hey.” 

Gon looks over, looks at the gun and then looks up at Killua’s eyes. 

“Does this feel right to you?”

A shake of his head. “No. It’s usually quiet but—this. This is weird.” 

They’re both keeping their voices low. 

Gon’s hands come up behind his back and pull out the crossbow. He keeps it in one hand, facing the ground as they continue walking. A hardware store, a garden shop, a beauty supply. Apartments above these small shops, with broken windows and rotten emergency staircases. 

Not even the wind is blowing. 

One step forward, and Killua roughly grabs Gon’s jacket, tugging him back with so much force that Gon stumbles into his chest. He turns his head to look at Killua, but Killua is looking forward, eyes blown wide in fear and face paling more by the second. Gon looks forward again. 

Down the street, near the next intersection—Screamers. One, three, five, seven, nine… eleven. Eleven Screamers. There are clicks. Low clicks, and heavy steps, and quiet groans and mutters. There’s no—there’s no clear periphery, and Killua can’t see if there are more just past the rusted cars and collapsed rubble. 

But they’re _there_. 

And not all the same either. 

Seven regular Screamers, and yet the others are different. Mutated. Deformed bodies or torn faces, melted skin and exposed ligaments. Large, unsightly things—faster or stronger or bigger or louder. And the louder a Screamer, the more they attracted. 

The familiar trembling in Killua’s hands return when one of the larger ones turns their way. Killua can’t help gripping Gon's jacket harder. Sweat trails down his face and nape, and his knees feel weak. A spasm of his muscles before one of the larger _things_ clicks, agitated and shaking its head, charging forward despite its fractured legs.

Killua hears Gon breath hitch the moment it starts moving, and then they’re moving too. 

God, it’s not smart. It’s not smart at all—when Killua grabs Gon and pushes him towards an alley. But he’s panicked, and not thinking straight, and the only thing that’s running through his head is controlling the damage that’s about to ensue. Killua is pulling the safety on his gun, pushing up and aiming, swearing to himself when his arms tremble from the nervousness of it all. 

_It’s getting closer._

“Fuck—Gon!” 

“I’ve got it!”

One arrow speeds through the air, and then a bullet—then two and three more and the thing isn’t going down, and Killua can feel his heartbeat pick up when it’s still coming towards them, the rest of the Screamers following ensuite. Killua shoots twice more in a panic.

It’s not enough.

Gon’s eyes harden considerably, darkening and losing their light, and he’s loading three more arrows; he’s already three short—Killua has two rounds left before he has to reload. They step back again, further and further until their closing in on the alley. 

The closer the Screamer gets the more Killua panics, and he gives a nervous laugh, holding his breath and spending both bullets where they count—in the damn thing’s head, before one more arrow from Gon’s crossbow is sending it down. And it falls down useless on the ground, giving a low, shrill cry—and then the other Screamer’s are walking over it. 

Killua doesn’t have enough time to reload. _Does he? He’s not sure. He’s not sure—he doesn’t know. The numbers aren’t running in his head._

_Just load the damn gun._

“Gon—”

An arrow flies through the air. One more body falls. 

“It’s okay—” 

Killua fumbles with more of the ammo, loading in the bullets into the magazine clumsily and pulling the slide back to load it into the chamber. There’s one Screamer in the alley, and Killua is quick—aims his gun and pulls the trigger, and it crashes onto the ground without another complaint. 

Gon shoots an arrow at the Screamers closing in on the alley. He’s huffing, hand reaching behind to his stash of arrows before he freezes and swears. 

“Killua—I’m out of—”

Killua pushes forward, pulling Gon behind him. “I’ll cover you!” 

Gon had spent his last arrow on a regular Screamer. There are nine left. Killua’s gun can only hold ten bullets. _Fuck_. He hears velcro rip, and a knife sheath, before Killua is aiming and firing at the Screamers. One body down, then another, and another. 

It’s simple, like clockwork.

As long as he has bullets, the task is easy. 

Just shoot. Pull the trigger, over and over and over. 

To keep Gon safe, to keep himself safe. To survive. 

One bullet, three Screamers. 

Shoot once—

It didn’t fall—its resistance—

—Out of ammo. No time to reload. 

_Unsheath your knife._

Gon moves quickly, redirecting the attention of one of the Screamers towards himself, moving further into the alley so it walks away from Killua. 

Killua whips his head towards Gon before being forced to look forward once again. “Gon—be careful!”

“It’s—It’s fine, deal with those two.” Killua hears a knife puncture skin, and the sound of something squelching. 

Quickly, quickly. Heart as his throat, Killua bends his knees slightly and brings the knife up in front of him. The Screamers groan and click and mutter unintelligible words—faces melted and patches of skin ripped off. He kicks one back—focuses on the stronger, faster one. It opens its mouth to shriek before Killua is swinging down his knife and digging it into its skull. As far as it can go, until it’s limp and falling. 

And he doesn’t have a lot of time—the other Screamer is moving forward, and Killua pulls—pulls hard to remove the knife and bring it back up into his space and have control once again. This one is simple. This is just a common Screamer. He can deal with this—it won’t hurt him. 

_Something is off. Something feels very wrong._

Because for all it’s worth—Killua has heard a lot of screams in the past nine years. He’s heard the screams of the dead, the screams of fear, the screams of joy. But the sound he knows like the back of his hand—engraved deeply in his head and echoing there everyday, haunting his very being, is the scream of someone getting bit. 

And Gon’s voice is ringing out, loud and short and pained, and Killua feels his heart stop—he feels it sink pitifully quick, just like that—and a wave of nausea overcomes him. 

The ticking of the clock stops. 

_It just stops._

_Time **stops**. _

Killua is moving fast, hand swinging down the knife at the Screamer, and he has to be quick, because it’s getting hard to see and his lips are trembling and his hands are quivering. The Screamer falls, long forgotten, and Killua doesn’t care—he doesn’t even bother to take back his knife, it just clatters uselessly onto the asphalt, ringing distantly in Killua’s ears as he turns around.

The Screamer he’d shot. One bullet hadn’t been enough. It had crawled to Gon—God, _it had crawled to him_. And now Gon is on the ground. He’s pushing it away, one hand gripping it’s head and he’s kicking his legs—struggling to reach his knife.

_Oh, God._

_Run to him._

Killua moves on autopilot. Undoes the second knife from his thighs and rushes, pulls the fucking Screamer back and stabs it with so much force it lurches blood and croaks before falling limp. Ugly, rotten skin and blue veins—missing patches of hair and torn clothing and _this thing is what had caused this—caused… this._

_This._

_—Gon is bit._

_Gon is bit, oh, God, Gon is bit._

He falls to his knees, hands itching by his sides. 

“It’s—” Gon huffs, voice quiet, and he laughs, “It’s fine—I wasn’t bit, Killua.” 

_Gon is bit._

“Gon—”

“I’m not bit, it’s okay—don’t, don’t panic.” 

_Gon is bit and it’s Killua’s fault._

Killua’s fingers are itching to see. 

“Can… Can I?” Soft, gentle—a hint of panic. 

Gon nods. 

_Maybe Gon isn’t bit. His pants are thick, maybe the bite didn’t go through._

_Gon is sensible._

_He’s quick on his feet and he’s fast—faster than Killua._

_He’s not bit. He can’t be bit._

Killua swallows. Forces his arms to comply. 

Slowly, deftly, gentle and kind and tender, everything Gon needs. It’s silent. God, it’s silent in a way it wasn’t before—worse. Their breaths are baited and Killua forces himself to _man up_ and let his fingers finally touch the fabric. Just touch, before he lifts and prepares for—for whatever is or isn’t there. 

_It’s wet._

It’s wet, and blood stains his fingertips just a little—a light stain, but it seems so red against his pale skin. 

Killua feels his throat closing up. 

He—

—He needs to see. 

Pulls the fabric up slowly, until it bunches up and stretches around Gon’s leg, and Killua _sees._ And he had seen, before, when he’d been inching the fabric up his leg—because nothing could hide the slow reveal of a circular indentation bleeding profusely. The peeling up didn’t hide the ugly red, crimson liquid—didn’t hide the skin torn and blue at the corners.

His breathing stops—he feels choked.

And Gon’s? It speeds up. It grows uneven, and shaky, and Killua looks up and meets hazel eyes that look all-too-knowing and all-too-scared of what’s coming. It’s registered within him. Gon’s eyes don’t tear away from the wound—they don’t look anywhere else. 

Killua doesn’t have the strength to lower the pant leg once again. His hands are trembling, shaking violently, and his vision narrows only on Gon. Gon, who starts taking bigger breaths, in and out and in and out, over and over and over, and he tries to fill his lungs with _air_. 

His eyes won’t leave the wound. 

Killua can’t take this. 

“Gon,” He swallows, forces himself to speak past hoarse words and the closing of vocal cords. “Gon, baby—”

Just like that, Gon’s eyes snap up to him, filled with fear and regret and more than Killua can bear, before Gon’s breathing grows labored and his eyes are filling with tears—glassy eyes that look at him so wide in shock, where his lips tremble and eyebrows furrow. 

The situation has fallen.

Gon lets out a loud sob. Broken, and pained, and he shuts his eyes and brings his palms to his face—covering it and shaking his head. 

“I—I’m sorry,” He says, voice cracking, “suh—sorry. Killua, I’m so sorry.” 

Killua is sure even his family can hear the shattering of his heart. 

Gon takes a gulp of air, loud and quivering. “I luh—love you so—so…” A laugh, followed by a wet sob, and his voice contorts and breaks all over again. “I love you so much. I love you.”

His form is shaking, breath short, and Killua reaches out—lets his fingers hover, inches from Gon’s skin, just a moment’s touch away. Alabaster touches honey, and Killua is pulling Gon’s hands down, his choked words like a barbed wire to Killua’s heart—dipped in a lethal poison—and he’s intertwining their fingers, letting his thumb soothe his dorsal. 

Christ, he doesn’t know what to _do_. 

“Killua, I’m— I’m… Killua, I’m sorry. I want—I just wuh—want—” 

Sandpaper in his throat, Killua struggles to find the words. Gon is trying to get the words out—whatever he means with whatever ticking time is left. Time—How much is left? God, Killua hadn’t even—He doesn’t know how much Gon has left. 

_Don’t think of that._

“Gon.” Killua’s voice is as gentle as he can make it. “Hey, Gon. Gon, look at me.” 

Killua’s not sure Gon _can_ see him through the tears spilling from his eyes. His hands are still trembling in Killua’s own. 

“Gon, it’s going to be alright. We’re gonna get back to the camp—we’re gonna,” Killua swallows, tears lining his own eyes. “We’re so close, baby. We’ve been so strong until now, we’re so close to the end of this hell.”

A pitiful whine, and a choked cry. Gon tries to tear his hands away from Killua’s grasp. Killua holds him tighter. 

“You always talk about your island—how much you love nature. Watch, we’ll get a small apartment—we’ll be safe, it’ll have real windows, and real curtains, and a real door, and we won’t have to cover anything with cardboard. It’ll be ours. We can put up your favorite plants all over the place.” 

Gon’s fingers clench Killua’s own, and he stares at Killua with stained cheeks and bitten lips. 

Killua continues. “We’ll have our own kitchen, and we can cook all the recipes you remember—cook every meal that you said you wished I’d been able to try. We’ll stay up and play dominos. We can even—we can even get a puppy, like the one you’d seen on the poster on our walk back to the prison, after that scavenge.”

“Just—” Killua chokes on his tears, throat spasming, gripping Gon’s hands tighter, his voice giving out then. “Just stay. Please, Gon. Stay.”

He’s nodding—Gon is nodding through the tears and struggling to form a coherent sentence. And Killua is quick to hold his cheeks in his hands, running his thumbs to caress the supple, honey skin gently and wipe away the falling tears of distress. He does it, over and over again—until his finger hurts from the friction. But he won’t stop until he memorizes the curves of Gon’s features, the small dents in his skin from scars and the bumps on other planes.

Gon’s unsteady breathing makes Killua nervous—it scares him to his core. The blood, and the tears, and the repeated apologies: it all undermines Killua’s heart, and he struggles to reign in his own emotions. 

Slowly, he detaches from Gon’s face, and Killua lets himself graze Gon’s sides and pull him forward, hands hooking around to grasp his shoulders. He holds him close, in his arms, pushed flushed against his own chest to bask in his warmth. And if Killua partly does it to hide the shedding of his own tears, Gon doesn’t have to know.

The trembling won’t stop, but it slows—calms as the seconds bleed into minutes. He won’t let go of him. Not now, not ever. 

Killua sends a silent swear towards the sky, to whatever remnant of a God remains.

There is only silence. Gon’s shuddering breaths slowing, and his hands come up and hold Killua too, after a while. Holds him weakly, face pressed into his neck—and even if the tears have slowed, they’re still falling. Killua wishes they weren’t. His quiet hiccups for air break Killua’s heart further. 

“Killua…” Gon is trying to pull away from his embrace. “Killua, you have to go.” 

His heart stops. 

He shakes his head. Gon struggles a little more. 

“ _Corazón_ ,” Gon says, “You have to go. Find Leorio and Kurapika. You can—” 

Another wet laugh bubbles past Gon’s throat. “You can explain what happened in the camp. You can lead.”

Killua shakes his head more vigorously, pulling back and yet not letting go of Gon. “I won’t. Gon, I won’t. I don’t want to lead. Bite me. I want you to bite me, after you—”

God, he can’t even say it.

Instead, he stifles the spasm in his throat. “We can stay together, then.” The words are spoken softly and barely above a whisper but still rushed and desperate. 

Tears pool at his eyes all over again, and Gon’s beautiful honey skin is tinted red—his nose and cheeks and eyes. Wet trails of tears that haven’t dried. He swallows. 

“Killua, no! You can’t just—what about Alluka and Nanika? You can’t just leave them!” 

“ _You_ can’t just leave me!” 

Silence. 

Ragged breathing. 

Gon is staring at Killua with wide eyes—brows furrowing and struggling to keep indifferent, biting his lip to keep in the cry. 

Killua shifts. He moves off his knees and stands, and the bite mark is still there—still there and hasn’t faded like some stupid trick Killua thought it’d be. It’s still there and Killua is so, so scared. Carefully, he lifts Gon: hooking his arms under his knees and back and Gon makes a noise of protest as Killua walks.

“Killua—”

“Into a building,” he huffs, “So that we’re safe until—until help gets here. I’m staying—I’ll… I’m not leaving you, Gon.”

A sob tears past Gon’s lips—it’s hard to keep in the tears. 

“You need to be my eyes, baby,” Killua says through gritted teeth, body tired and lugging, “If you see a Screamer, shoot it.” 

He hands Gon the loaded gun. His hands are trembling. 

Killua knows the signs. 

Knows that first comes the shaking, then the headaches, and the sweating, and dizziness, and nausea, and chills, and numbness—

He holds in a groan at the pain in his chest. 

“I have a headache…” Gon is sweating. Killua refuses to acknowledge it.

“It’s okay, baby. We’ll be indoors soon. Look—can you grab that knife in the Screamer’s head?” 

Gon gives a weak hum, fingers grasping the hilt of the knife and pulling it out.

The coast is clear—outside the alley. The streets are empty, and Killua moves fast, carrying Gon into the nearest, most undamaged building he can find. It ends up being the flower shop. The door is unhinged, but it opens and closes, and Killua is careful when stepping in, looking around and listening carefully. 

He shuts the door with his foot, and the sun illuminates the room from the big hole in the ceiling. No clicking, no groaning, no mumbling. This is safe. Killua sets Gon down on the dust-filled floor, swiping away debris with the ball of his foot before placing him there with an exhausted exhale. 

“Rest here, alright? I’m gonna make sure nothing is out back.” 

“The—the gun, take it.” 

Killua shakes his head. “Keep it, I don’t want you moving around.” 

Quickly, he’s taking long strides to the back room. Nothing there. He checks the cob-webbed cabinets and finds them empty. He’s a far enough distance from Gon to make the call, and so he does—digging through the back pocket of his pants to grab the two-way radio. It clicks when he presses the button.

“Leorio. Kurapika.” His voice is tense, ruined in every sense of the word. Click. 

It takes a few moments before Kurapika’s voice rings back through. 

“Killua? Did something happen?” 

All over again, Killua feels the emotions rise and surge within him. The agony and pain and fear and wallowing. An inner turmoil of voices and failure—he forces himself to swallow.

“Gon—Gon got bit. We’re, uhm…” He gives a dry laugh, tears welling in his eyes, “We’re in a flower shop. Waiting.”

Seconds pass by. There’s no response, until two clicks and rummaging come through on the other line.

“Killua—” It’s Leorio’s voice this time, teeming with barely-restrained panic. “Killua—we’re on our way. The emergency button, the red button at the top of the radio, to the right—click it. Click it and it’ll tell us where you are.”

Gon’s voice flashes through his head. Back, a year ago, when he was first in the camp. Gon’s happy voice, handing him the radio with ease and trusting him and Killua _failed him_. Killua had wondered why they’d ever need such a button and now—

“I clicked it.”

“— _o far._ Killua—Killua, we’re on our way. How long—How long ago was Gon bit?”

Tears fill Killua’s eyes. He takes a steadying breath.

“I don’t… I don’t know. I don’t know how long it’s been—there were so many Screamers, and we were in an alley.”

The radio clicks.

“That’s fine.” It’s Kurapika’s voice now, and his breath is more rushed. It sounds like they’re running. “It’s not your fault. We’re on our way. Wait for us, alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah…”

The radio clicks with a final sound. And Killua gets moving again—shoves the radio into his pocket.

On his way back to Gon, Killua checks every storage space he passes. Newspapers, foils, parchments. Receipt paper. They’re all useless. The bathroom cabinet is locked—Killua kicks in the soggy wood with his boot. 

A first aid kit. It’s lid is filled with dust and it looks completely untouched—relief foods his system.

Anxious fingers unlock the box only to find a few bandaids and gauze. There’s not much tape left. Scissors, a tweezer. Two antiseptic wipes. And that’s enough. That’s enough to bandage Gon’s bite. But before that—

Killua eyes the flowers, the flowers that haven’t wilted in the garden room. There’s not many, but the hole in the ceiling was probably providing nutrients and water. Gorgeous blue flowers with long stems, they reach up into the air, and Killua doesn’t know their name—doesn’t _remember_ —but he appreciates them nonetheless. 

And so there’s nothing to stop him from reaching out: calloused fingers gripping the base of the stem and pulling it out as gently as he could from the soil. The dirt lifts and some of it spills onto the already debris-filled floor, but Killua doesn’t care. He holds it gently, like a new life is in the palm of his hands—and maybe it is—Killua cut it’s life short, and now it doesn’t have much time left. 

It reminds him of Gon. 

The pitter-patter of his footsteps echo throughout the store. First aid kit in one hand, flower in the other, Killua is careful when he’s approaching Gon, announcing his presence in the room, and he hears the gun get placed against the tile floor. 

“Killua?”

Longer strides, and then Killua is in front of Gon again, crouching down and placing the first aid aside near Gon’s bloodied foot. He gingerly holds out the blue flowers.

“I got these for you, baby—just like you got me, remember?.” Gon doesn’t say anything at first, but he accepts the flowers, fingers brushing Killua’s as they exchange the stem. Killua takes a glance and sees the wonderment in his eyes. His heart clenches pathetically in his chest. 

“Oh…” 

Killua begins to open the first aid, reaching for the tape and gauze. 

“Do you like it?” 

“Yeah…” Gon mumbles, quiet and tender. 

Nimble fingers work quickly to disinfect the wound first, and Killua was worried it would sting, but Gon doesn’t react—staring at the flowers. Killua worries that maybe numbness had set in already. He bites his lip as he tosses the bloodied disinfectant somewhere. 

“Flowers...”

Gon’s voice is distant. 

“Mito said flowers go bad if you hold them too tight… by the stem…”

Killua makes a noise as he works, bandaging his wound carefully. “Really, baby?” 

He hums. “Yeah… She said it lots of times, when I’d bring her flowers all crushed at the stem. She said—she said if you hold them too tight they’ll hurt.”

Blue eyes lift, just momentarily, and search for hazel. Gon is still staring at the flower, eyes glossed and seemingly lost in a happy memory. 

Killua hides a fond smile by lowering his head and getting back to work, grabbing the tape and tightly securing the gauze. He pushes away the first aid kit after placing the scissors back inside—gently patting the wound and scooting up to Gon’s form. He’s holding the flower so gently. 

The pads of his fingers skim Gon’s skin, and Gon looks at him briefly—slowly—before intertwining their fingers. And Killua takes it as more than an invitation, pulling the walkie-talkie from out of his pocket and placing it by his side as he takes a seat beside Gon on the floor. 

Their hands are entwined, and they’re pressed together—shoulders touching. Killua runs his thumb on Gon’s dorsal, and signals for Gon to rest his head on his shoulder. It’s quiet in the shop. Just them.

Darkness reaching from the corners of the store, tendrils of pitch-black nearly snaking around their figures, stopped only by the sunlight that shines through the caved ceiling. The blue and purple flowers that bloom unperturbed, the moss that sticks to the brick and cement—the vines that fall from overgrowth in the pots of plants. 

“You remember when you told me to find something to fight for?” Killua says suddenly, not looking at Gon. 

Faintly, he hears him set down the flower gently on his lap. 

“Yeah…”

“It was you.” Killua’s voice is soft and firm and filled with wonderment and so many conflicting emotions that have no business being mixed all together. Gon’s breath stutters. “I found you, and you’re the reason I started counting the time again—and now I’m scared time is going to stop again.” 

His voice gives out towards the end. 

Gon tightens his hand in Kilua’s grasp. 

“I’m glad it was me who was bit.” 

Killua whips his head towards Gon, eyes wide and brows furrowed. “Gon—”

He shakes his head. “Do you remember when I first called you, when I had that nightmare?”

The furrow of Killua’s brow deepens, but he nods regardless.

“It was about you turning.” Gon fiddles with the flower. “It was the first time my nightmare was about you and not Aunt Mito—and I needed to make sure that you were safe so I...I called you.”

Silence. Seconds tick by, but Killua doesn’t count them.

He doesn’t want to count anymore. 

“Gon, I—” Killua’s voice is thin, and frail. “I don’t want to leave.”

“Killua—”

“I love you.”

There’s a tremor that runs through Gon’s body. It steals his breath and leaves Gon looking a little shaken and a little sad—and a lot of little things. Emotions filter through his face: happiness, content, wonderment, and then, sadness. 

His hazel eyes are watering, amber seemingly ready to cry sap: big tears prepared to trail down his face. Instead, he takes a breath. 

“I—me, me too.” 

And Killua gives a smile—tender and filled with every ounce of love he can pour into it. Just like that, the silence grows comfortable and quiet—a timid sound of nothing in the distance, and Gon is slowly coming back to rest his head on Killua’s shoulder. Waiting. 

_They just wait now._

The sun has shifted its position, where it’s peeking from behind the collapsed roof, filtering in a warm ray of color that leaves it to illuminate the entire room in hues of orange and yellow. It cascades down upon the green overgrowth, and any shadows that would be black turn blue like the ocean depths. A small breeze moves the plants higher above—the vines and the flowers which reach for the opening in the ceiling. 

It’s ironic, how calm it is. 

It’s ironic how, as time runs out and the sand empties, it seems like nothing else matters, and there’s nothing else in this oasis of bliss that harbors them from the rest of the ruin. If it’s this way, maybe Gon and Killua have found a world within themselves. 

Killua shuts his eyes in thought, and grips Gon’s hand tighter. 

The red emergency button continues blinking. 

Leorio watches the sun continue its descent down as Kurapika and him continue their trek down the street, following the GPS signal on the walkie-talkie. They’ve been following it, like dogs, running and huffing and only stopping to catch their breath or deal with Screamers. 

Which have been quite a lot. 

Mutated ones—more than usual. Leorio had taken to the habit of writing down the characteristics of Screamers in his medical notebook, or well, what was left of it. The small dingy thing was worn to its core and was filled with more writing than he’d ever cared to write in his college days. 

And usually, he’s fascinated. He likes to force Kurapika to stop so they can write down more notes and do more research and _observe_. But that idea is irrelevant and thrown out the window—he’d done as much when Killua had radioed in about—

—about Gon. 

His throat seizes at the thought. 

_God, he’s just a child._

Sure, Gon is twenty-five, but fuck, he has a lot to live for. And he’s lost so much. Wing, and Kite, Mito and his father. And now he’s going to lose himself too? Lose Killua and the life he worked so hard to build. Leorio just can’t stop thinking about it. About what’s _happening_. 

“Leorio.” Kurapika’s voice is firm. He’s holding his knife, gun sitting in his pocket—no ammo found at all before they started to rush back. 

“It’s been—”

“It’s been over an hour.” Kurapika is staring at him, tilting his head to keep him moving. “If Killua didn’t kill him, then—”

“Killua wouldn’t.” 

“Then that means there’s going to be two Screamers in there, both are two people who we care about, and I need to make sure you won’t chicken out if we have to put them down.”

There’s a certain look in Kurapika’s eyes. 

Leorio can see it. The way the sun makes his eyes almost gleam red: with rage or with sadness or—he’s not too sure. But they’re practically blazing, and Leorio’s aware that Kurapika doesn’t want to do this. 

“We won’t kill either of them. We can take them back to the camp.” 

Neither of them stops walking, but Kurapika turns, ready to refute his idea. 

“I can lock them up in a cell. I’ll run as many tests as I need. I’ll make all the trips necessary for supplies—I’ll find the cure, Kurapika. Don’t kill them.” 

A sigh. “If they’re coming after us, we have no choice.”

Leorio grabs his hand, stopping him.

The two-way radio continues beeping. 

“Promise me—Promise me you won’t hurt Gon or Killua.” 

“They’re _not_ —” The pleading look in Leorio’s eyes makes him stop, mouth half-open to continue before he closes it and looks away. “I promise, Leorio.” 

The words make it easier to breathe. 

“The GPS says they're on this street.” 

He doesn’t even wait for the rest of Kurapika’s words. Leorio is taking off, legs taking long strides, worn shoes hitting against the asphalt loudly. He’s huffing, and sweating—a weak wheeze leaving between his lips—but Gon is there, Gon is inside the shop with Killua and he’s going to be okay. They’re both going to be okay. 

Big letters, in sweet cursive, rotted and rusted and slightly tilted on its hinges, the flower shop sign comes into view—and Leorio slows, feet stepping quietly against the overgrown grass and shattered glass. Kurapika is behind him, and his hand reaches out for the door with Leorio’s. 

It creaks. Squeaks under their combined push, and Leorio is left to squint before his eyes adjust to the darkness, and he sees them.

Sees Killua and Gon sitting on the ground, gun in Killua’s limp hand, and for a moment—

For a moment, he thinks maybe they’d both killed themselves. 

_A lover’s suicide._

Leorio’s eyes widen, breath stuttering, before he’s coming forward, walking fast to stand in front of them and Kurapika hisses at him to be careful, lagging behind him and hesitating in his step for just a moment. Large hands reach out to the bodies in front of him, scanning before carefully turning Gon’s hands over and feeling for his pulse.

Careful, careful, careful. 

There’s a pulse. 

_They both have a pulse._

He takes a shaky breath, gripping them and shaking them awake. And Gon’s eyes slowly open, looking at Leorio, before they widen, and his hands are coming up to touch his face—fingers brushing against honey skin. Killua stirs, quickly jumping to life and fumbling with the gun. 

A trembling sigh of relief leaves Killua’s lips when it’s Leorio who he registers in front of him. And he’s turning to Gon, eyes searching his, but Gon is trembling all over again—shocked. 

Leorio takes Gon’s hands into his own. 

“How do you feel?” 

Gon opens his mouth, before shutting it and staying quiet. After a moment, he speaks. 

“Fine.”

“Fine? Completely fine? Where were you bit?”

Killua points to Gon’s leg, where the gauze covers the expanse of the skin above his ankle. 

It seems they’re both shocked into silence. 

“Does anything hurt? Do you feel dizzy, or ill, or weak, or—”

“No,” Gon swallows, looking at Killua—his hazel eyes brimming with tears. “No, I feel fine—like, like I wasn’t even bit.” 

“How is that…” Kurapika comes closer, hovering above Leorio. “How is that even possible? It’s been well over an hour—I’d say it’s been over two.”

The sudden realization dawns on him—it comes up and unravels in Leorio’s mind, and he struggles to grasp the seams of those thoughts, scrambles to reach the idea and put it into words. _This_ shouldn’t be possible, and yet in every sense of the situation, it is. 

“Gon…” He breathes out, finally finding the words from within him, fingers trembling. “Gon—you’re the cure.” 

The return to the camp is a slow one. 

Gon is shifting between there and not, often too lost in his thoughts to do more than stare into nothing. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t smile, doesn’t eat. He just stares at the bandaged bite on his foot with far-too-distant eyes. Sometimes he’ll let his calloused fingers graze the wound, and Killua will take his hand and hold it in his and try to look into his eyes. 

Gon will sometimes meet his eyes—give him a look that borders another fit of crying. He can tell by his low yet sharp intake of breath, by the bite of his lip and slight quivering of his brow.

And he’s like that for the entire trip back. 

Throughout the three or so days it takes to get back to the prison—Killua struggles to count when he’s looking at Gon and thanking every and any remnant of a God there is—Gon is lost. Lost in himself, and the memory. 

Killua’s not all-too-sure what happened, if he’s being honest. 

He _knows_ what happened, but also not really. He knows that Gon got bit—remembers the stuttering of his breath and the panic of his voice. He knows that Gon showed every symptom of turning into a Screamer. He knows that Gon had held onto him softly, resigning himself to his fate so easily after having fought so long. Killua remembers it all—the sight, the smell, and the sounds.

And at the same time, he doesn’t. 

Because the idea that Gon is something as elusive as _The Cure_ is seemingly impossible and incomprehensible. An intangible dream that was always just out of reach. It was a thing they’d fought day and night for—fought to survive for. And Gon was the answer. Gon had been the answer all along.

It’s just a little hard to believe. 

When they do arrive at the camp, Gon returns to his usual demeanor, if just for a bit. He pulls down the leg of his pant to cover the bandage and puts on a smile for everyone to see. They walk through the gates with no supplies gained and more lost, but they chalk it up to a bad run at a bad time. The refugees understand. 

That doesn’t mean that Killua doesn’t notice Leorio and Kurapika share a look, or their quiet glances over at Killua. Killua well understands that Gon needs to go to his room, and he leaves no room for argument, grabbing Gon’s hand and clasping it into his warmth tightly, giving him a soft look that has Gon faltering, just a little. 

He walks Gon back down the familiar halls, past the cracked tiles and chipping walls. Past the lights that sometimes flickered and sometimes didn’t. He holds Gon’s hand the entire time, leading him into his room and watching as Gon takes a seat at the bed, undoing the covers and sitting on the bare mattress. 

“Gon,” Killua’s voice is soft, “Baby, I’ll be right back, alright? ‘M gonna go get you something to eat and drink.” 

The reply he gets is barely audible. A soft hum. Gon won’t look up at him, lifting up the pant leg again to stare at the gauze.

Killua shuts the door slowly, closing it with a quiet click and bee-lining for the cafeteria. 

Grabs a bowl of soup, a wooden cup filled with warm water. 

He doesn’t pause for conversation, doesn’t stop to explain to anyone his long strides—but he catches some refugees talking with Alluka, and others playing with Nanika, and smiles to himself. At least one development occurred. Alluka’s eyes briefly meet his, and she nods before he loses sight of her between the corridor walls.

A gentle rasp against the door, and Killua is coming back into Gon’s room: warm bowl of soup heating his hand uncomfortably. 

Gon is laying there, on the mattress, and he shifts when he hears the familiar sound of a click, pulling himself up through tired arms to gaze blankly at Killua. There’s more brewing in those hazel eyes, dimmed and wandering. Killua takes a seat at the edge of the bed, setting the cup of water on the floor and stirring the bowl of soup with the wooden spoon. 

“C’mere. You hungry?” 

Despite shaking his head, Gon comes closer. 

Killua sighs, pausing his stirring—meeting Gon’s hazel eyes with his own worried blue ones. “Gon, you need to eat something. You can’t just do that to your body, you’ll—” Killua freezes, swallowing his words. He can’t say it. “Y’know.” 

The words seem to impact Gon a lot. Killua knows through the trembling of his lips and the crumbling of his face—blank gaze suddenly falling into something pathetic and sad, and he lets out a stuttering breath that’s followed by a soft cry. Killua barely has time to set the bowl on the ground before Gon’s arms are shooting out and wrapping around Killua’s neck. 

The silence is filled with Gon’s sobs. 

“Kih—Killua.” His voice is muffled, cried into the space between Killua’s shoulder and neck. 

Killua’s hands are coming up and holding Gon just as tight, grasping his clothes and wriggling the fabric under the pressure of it all. 

“Uh—I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 

His fingers tighten in Killua’s hair—grasp at the soft tuffs of white.

“I failed him.” 

Distantly, Killua registers he’s not apologizing to him. 

“Failed who, baby?” Killua’s voice is soft and tender, a gentle wave of reassurance. Gon cries harder.

“Kite—I fuh—failed Kite.” Gon takes a shaky breath. “Kite had—Kite had been looking for a cure. He’d spent years looking a… a cure and—”

A gasp, a sob. It wracks through his throat and tumbles uselessly past his lips. 

“I was the cure.” 

Gon is so destroyed. Killua tightens his hold around Gon as his eyes water. 

“You didn’t know.” 

He shakes his head, shaking puffs of breath heating Killua’s skin.

“I was—He had been looking for a cure and...and it was me. I was standing there the entire time.”

Quickly, Killua untangles his fingers around Gon’s hair, pulling back to cup his cheeks and get him to look up at him. Blotchy, red cheeks and dusted red nose, tears streaming down his face and his eyes are rimmed an irritated color. Gon’s lips are quivering as he struggles to speak, opening and closing his mouth several times.

Soft, tender words: “Gon, baby, you _didn’t know._ It’s okay.” 

Silence. Gon’s eyes search Killua’s for seconds on end before he gives an anguished whimper—face crumbling all over again—and buries his face into Killua’s neck to cry once again. Killua feels lost—lost and stranded and unable to help Gon in any way. There are no words that will cure this spell of sadness. There are not enough apologies that will make him see differently. 

Instead, in the darkness of the room, Killua continues to let his fingers thread through Gon’s hair, repeating the motions over and over until he can remember the texture of Gon’s thick hair by touch alone. Killua continues to hold Gon tightly, smothering him in warmth and familiarity, until his cries fade from wracked sobs into choked pants and harsh swallowing. 

Until Gon’s chest is quaking under every passing breath, and he’s shakily inhaling through his mouth, huffing out hot air against Killua’s neck. 

It’s not until Killua is sure Gon can listen and internalize his words that he speaks. 

“Gon,” Killua’s voice is soft, and he lets one hand follow down the trail of his spine, rubbing soothing circles there. “You know you’re really amazing?” 

He doesn’t receive a response, but that’s alright.

“You’re amazing, and strong, and you’ve built this entire place up from the ground up. You’ve fought so hard, you’ve achieved so much—even in the state of this world now. I know you’re upset baby, but you didn’t know. You couldn’t have known, when the one thing that was your indicator of immunity was the very thing you were supposed to avoid. We all learned to avoid Screamers. Screamers meant a cruel death, and that mindset applied to you too.” 

Softly, Killua lets his hands come down, circling Gon’s body until they’re pressing into his shoulders and pulling him away from Killua. He wants to _see_. He wants to see Gon. 

Even the darkness of the room can’t hide his irritated eyes, or the gleaming trails of trails. Can’t hide the absolute wet mess of his face, or the red of his cheeks and nose. Can’t hide the furrow of his brows or the trembling of his bitten, swollen lips. 

“There’s a saying,” Killua starts, barely above a whisper, “There’s a saying in my family… it goes: ‘ _A lover never lies to their other’.”_ Killua takes a pause to let the words sink in. “Gon, baby, listen to me when I tell you it’s not your fault.”

A sharp intake of air. Gon’s eyes are boring holes into Killua’s own orphic ones, lips parted slightly. 

“I love you, so much.” Gently, he cups Gon’s cheeks and presses a kiss to his forehead. Tender in every sense of the word. “And I need you to know it was never your fault. You can’t control these things.” 

It takes a moment before the words fully process in Gon’s head. Before his breathing calms and his lips struggle to give a broken smile. And he gives a small nod, unable to find the words. Killua smiles at him. A calm lull replaces the previous gloom, and it extends its reach and effect for dozens of seconds. 

“Want some water?” 

Another nod. 

Alabaster hands reach for the cup on the floor, handing it to honey-colored hands. He slowly drinks from the cup as Killua grabs the soup. It’s gone cold. 

“Do you want me to go heat it?”

A shake of his head, and Gon is reaching for the bowl, gingerly taking it and bringing up the spoon to his lips slowly. 

Killua lets his hand rest on Gon’s knee, caressing his thumb on the skin there, eyeing the gauze wrapped around his leg. 

He can check that later. 

“Hey—Ikalgo.” 

The stout man sitting at the cafeteria table looks up, eating by himself in the quietness of the room. There aren’t many refugees out at this time, resting up in their cells. 

Gon is in his cell too, resting. He’s taken to scouting the barriers often as a way to get his mind off things. As a way to see some sunlight and assure everyone he’s okay. 

He’s not, not really. 

“Yeah?”

Killua takes a seat at the table in front of him. 

“How was your day?”

There’s a slight furrow to his eyebrows, although he doesn’t set his spoon down. 

“It was fine.” 

The answer is straightforward.

Killua grimances internally. 

“Was patrolling alright?” Killua leans forward, leaning his weight onto his forearms resting against the tabletop. “The ash got stronger today again—Gon told us all to stay indoors.” 

“It was fine. Wore an old cloth over my nose and mouth.” 

_Ah._

_Well. This is awkward_. 

There’s a stretch of uncomfortable stillness. Killua doesn’t move. He doesn’t intend on leaving just yet. After a moment, Ikalgo sets down his spoon and sighs, looking up at Killua with slightly annoyed eyes. 

“So, what do you want?” 

Killua gnaws on his lower lips, thrumming his fingers anxiously on the table quietly, nails bitten and cuticles torn. 

“I was wondering—I was wondering if you knew anything that would cheer Gon up.” 

Ikalgo stares at him before scoffing. 

“What, so the perfect boyfriend doesn’t know?” 

Subconsciously, Killua grinds down on his teeth—he curls his lip and gives a tight-lipped smile, fingers clenching and unclenching. 

“I’d really appreciate your help on this, alright?” Killua takes a breath to settle his tone. “I know you’ve realized he’s upset about something.”

The energy around them swirls dark and hostile—aggressive in every sense of the word. They stare each other down, neither moving a single muscle. 

A long exhale, and Ikalgo moves the bit of food forward a bit. Killua glances down before glancing back up. 

“It’s a guessing game with Gon, alright? Sometimes he liked being held, other times he’d push and shove me away. After.” 

_That’s_ an interesting tidbit of information. 

“After the nightmares?”

A restrained nod. 

Gon had never shoved Killua away, no matter how many times he awake panting and sweating and afraid. 

But that still didn’t answer Killua’s question. 

“That—”

“I know.” Ikalgo interrupts, lifting his index finger. He averts his gaze before looking back at Killua, form slouching just a little. “I know that doesn’t answer your question. But you needed to know that.”

_Did he really?_

Ikalgo swallows loudly. “Just—Just get his mind off of things, alright? Spend more time with him. Prompt him to maybe pick what to do with… with you for the day. Just stay with him. Otherwise, he’ll spiral.” 

His eyes are distant and soft. Killua knows he’s reliving a memory. 

There’s a slight taste of pity and bitterness in his mouth. 

“Anything else I should know?” 

“Yeah, uh, he likes small gestures. Smaller over grander—just, y’know, occupy his mind and give him something to look forward to. You being there is already helping.” 

The words are surprisingly tender. 

“Just ask him about anything. His day, or what he had for breakfast—what he dreamt of. Little stuff, to show him you care. There’s not really much you both can do that we would’ve done in the past.” 

_In the past._

That’s an odd way of looking at the distant memory of their world. 

“Well—” Killua stands unceremoniously. “Thanks—for this.” He gestures at him. 

But before he can leave, fingers are gripping his wrist and Killua turns, looking at him. There’s a shift in his expression—his eyes are pleading. They hold a glint of imploration. Of begging. Killua knows those eyes too well. 

“What happened out there, Killua?” 

_What does he say?_

“Why is Gon so upset?” 

Killua stares at Ikalgo. Stares into his eyes, and his face. Notices the small things—that there are black bags under his eyes, and his hair is more tousled than usual.

“Gon tries to tell me,” He starts, voice distraught, “He tries, but every time he gets choked up and starts crying. What happened?” 

An inhale, and then an exhale. Killua shuts his eyes, preparing himself. The words are real, they happened and they’re in the past but that doesn’t make them any easier to say. Every time he says it aloud—every time he _thinks_ it—it feels like it’ll reverse what happened. That Gon will turn, that he’ll just have had a longer incubation period. It always comes down to _time._

It scares Killua. 

“Gon got bit.” The words still make Killua’s heart drop into his stomach. “Gon got bit, and we thought he was going to die. And then he didn’t. Gon is the cure.” 

For a long time, there’s no reaction. Ikalgo just stares at him blankly, until the words truly start to sink in. 

“How—”

“There was a horde. Some were mutated. We thought we’d killed one and it apparently hadn’t died. It got Gon. That’s everything that happened. You can’t tell anyone here; no one knows.”

He doesn’t tell Ikalgo of Gon’s pleas, or his cries—his sobs and repetitions and insistences. He leaves out Gon’s whimpers, and the blood, and the reason for his nightmares. He leaves out Gon’s distant smile, reliving quiet, quaint memories in the recesses of his mind—carefully stored as to not get damaged. 

That’s what Killua remembers the most—Gon’s quiet smile, for no one else but himself. 

Ikalgo gives a dumbfounded nod, mouth slightly open. 

And so Killua takes it as his chance to ask another question—one that he couldn’t ask Gon. Not now. Not when it posed as such a mental strain. 

“What can you tell me about Kite?” 

His mouth promptly shuts, eyes hardening. 

“That’s not my story to tell.” 

“But you know?” 

Another stiff nod. 

Killua sighs. He stands, pulling his hand away from Ikalgo’s grip, and walking away. Maybe he can ask someone else. 

As Killua walks away, Ikalgo’s voice rings out in the empty lunchroom. 

“I know you want to know, but I can’t..” 

He doesn’t turn as he walks away, but he brings his hand up in gesture—waves Ikalgo off. 

“That’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” 

He’ll find someone else who will tell. 

He needs to know. 

There’s a shift on the bed. 

A coldness seeps into the space between Killua and Gon, chilling Killua’s bones. And he vaguely registers a form moving—tossing and turning until Killua finally opens his eyes and sees Gon shifting—shaking his head and sweating, fingers clenching and unclenching on the mattress. 

Killua’s fingers reach out, ready to gently shake Gon as a sound of distress tears past his lips. 

Until his eyes snap open, and he exhales shakily, bringing a hand to his chest and trying to catch his breath. He stares at the ceiling before tears pool in his eyes and fall silently, silenced only by the bite to his lip, and he shuts his eyes with a furrow of his brow—stifling any other sound of distress. 

“Gon…” Killua’s voice is gentle; barely above a whisper. 

Knuckle-white fingers release the bedding, and Gon is looking over, turning his head slowly to face Killua, giving him an unsteady smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

His eyes cry more and more tears, holding fear and anguish. 

Killua moves forward, ready to hold Gon. Alabaster fingers snaking through the kicked-off sheets to pull Gon closer. 

But then Gon is flinching away, putting more distance between them, pushing Killua’s hands away with more vigor than necessary. 

It takes a moment for that action to register. 

For Killua to realize what just happened. 

The same applies for Gon. 

It takes a moment for it to register through his tears—and Killua knows when his actions have sunk in, because his eyes are widening, and he shrinks further back into himself, hiding from Killua’s face. 

_Killua remembers Ikalgo’s words._

They flash in his head, tauntingly. The words. Over, and over, and over.

_It’s not Gon’s fault._

“Suh—Sorry. Sorry. I’m—” Gon takes a deep breath and swallows roughly. “Kite—Kite was... I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Killua.” 

Killua doesn’t know what to do. 

To reach out, or to not?

Which does Gon want?

_It’s a guessing game._

“I didn’t—I didn’t mean to push yuh—you away, sorry. I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t worry about that.” There’s a physical barrier between them now. Separated by nothing but air and maybe something else. _Killua doesn’t know what to do._ ”It’s okay, Gon. You’re okay.”

This distance—it’s smothering. 

The silence stretches. 

Gon’s breaths are uneven and quivering. He’s sitting up, one hand against the cushion and the other clutching his shirt, tugging at the fabric lightly. Deep breaths—in and out and in and out, until he calms himself, _by himself,_ with Killua on the other side of the bed, unable to do anything but watch—

—watch, because Gon had pushed him away. And Killua didn’t want to push. 

When Gon has calmed a little, breaths still uneven and fingers still trembling, but otherwise calmed, he looks at Killua—with eyes torn and mouth frowning. There’s a silent apology there. There is hesitance in his words, hesitance in his form.

But most of all, there is hesitance when he pulls himself back to Killua, and presses his forehead to his chest quietly—relaxing slightly into his touch. 

Killua’s not sure if he has the right to touch Gon. If Gon _wants_ to be touched. 

“Gon, is it alright if—” 

There’s a nod against his chest. He doesn’t even let Killua finish his sentence. A nod, and a muffled sound, and Killua doesn’t wait a single second to wrap his arms around Gon and hold him. Nothing too strong, nothing too rough. 

_Don’t press Gon against your chest too much._

_Give him space to breathe._

Instead, Killua holds him loosely, arms wrapping around him and running soothing circles to reassure him. Warmth seeps back into him, with Gon close and in his arms. This is okay—Gon is alright. 

In the back of his mind, Killua thinks about Kite, and who he was, and thinks that maybe he’s been stalling for long enough. 

Kurapika and Leorio’s arrival back at the camp—back when they first returned after their long absence—meant a lot of things. For one, it meant Killua had someone to trade his refugee-training shifts with. Gon previously explained that Kurapika was the one who used to instruct, and it was vacant until Killua had taken it. 

Which meant that Killua knew exactly where Kurapika was today—since Kurapika was taking on his shift. 

And it _also_ meant that Killua knew the times in which the instruction would end. 

So he waits. Waits until the sun is just a little past overhead, sweat clinging to his nape as he eyes the section of the base where Kurapika trains. 

Killua had seen Gon briefly today. Face distraught, apologies still at the tip of his tongue for what happened—

—What had happened.

He swallows and averts his gaze, arms crossed as he leans against the dirty wall. 

_He needs answers._

The men and women there are starting to stretch and cool down. Others have started packing—grabbing a rag or shirt and ready to leave. Kurapika is standing, overseeing, nodding some off, raising a hand in gesture for others. Killua takes it as his cue to begin coming closer. 

Most of the refugees are gone when Killua finally speaks out. 

“Kurapika.” 

He looks over, turning his body to face Killua’s approaching form. 

“Can I talk with you?” 

Kurapika furrows his eyebrows before nodding. “About?”

“Gon.” He swallows. “And Kite.” 

When Kurapika doesn’t respond—doesn’t give a single clue as to his reaction—but simply stares, Killua pleads. 

“Please. I don’t know—I don’t know what to do. I can’t ask Gon, but then I don’t know how to help him.” 

It takes a moment, but Kurapika stares before sighing and nodding. 

“Let’s go to Leorio. He knows more of the personal details. There’s a lot you need to know.”

Relief floods Killua’s system like never before. It fills him, teeters near suffocating—steals his breath and threatens to push his heart into overdrive. But _this?_ This is so good. So, so good. This is what he needs: some information. _Anything_ to soothe Gon, so that he isn’t completely useless. 

Killua follows Kurapika back inside the building—building four: completely uninhabited by refugees, and explicitly off-limits. Leorio had announced that he’d continue his search for the cure, helpfully leaving out that the cure was right there in front of them, walking and breathing. 

Something about continuing his research—looking over collected notes. Killua hadn’t doubted that portion of his speech. 

The doors creak open, and Kurapika leads Killua down a hall of doors, until they’re reaching the end of the hall and Kurapika is knocking the door—a gentle yet firm rasp against the door—before opening. 

A mess would be an understatement in describing the room. 

There were papers strewn everywhere. On the floor, and walls, and tables. Counters and furniture and cupboards. Whatever this room was, it’s long gone. Leorio is groaning under his breath, tapping his foot anxiously before turning to them and giving a strained smile. 

Kurapika shuts the door. 

“Stressed?”

Leorio grimaces and nods. “Haven’t been able to do anything. We don’t have any supplies. I don’t even know where to begin with this. We know Gon is immune, or at least has a much higher incubation period than the rest of us, but—”

“Gon is immune.” Killua’s voice is stern. “It’s been too long to negate it.”

Another sigh. “It still doesn’t help us. There are no supplies where I’d be able to analyze _anything_. I wasn’t a microbiologist—I know virtually nothing, this is utter crap.”

It’s quiet before he speaks up again: “If Kite was still here—”

Killua takes it as his chance to speak up. 

“Actually, that’s why I’m here.” 

Leorio looks over, eyebrow arched in question. Kurapika sighs, dragging a chair from the corner of the room over to Leorio, and then one for Killua. 

“You’ll want to sit for this one.” Kurapika says, and Leorio makes a noise of confusion. “We’re going to be here for awhile.” 

Killua takes a seat, eyes hard as he stares at Leorio, posture slouched and leaning forward. 

“What can you tell me about Kite?” 

A noise of shock. “Kite?”

He nods. “I can’t ask Gon. I don’t—I don’t want to make him think about it any more than he already does. But I can’t help him if I don’t know, Leorio.” 

Leorio stares into Killua’s eyes, before looking over at Kurapika, and looking back at Killua. He gives a long, loud exhale, relaxing his form into the chair and rolling his shoulders to lessen the tension built there. 

“There’s… a lot to run down, if you want to know it all.” 

Not a single flinch. Killua doesn’t break eye contact. “Don’t have anywhere else to be.” 

“Alright, well.” He gives a dry chuckle, “Where do I even begin?” 

Killua ponders for a movement, though Kurapika is faster at formulating his response. 

“Leorio, just start from the beginning. I’ll fill in whatever you forget or leave out.” 

Another tired sigh. Leorio looks at the ground. “Well then—let’s start with what Kurapika and I know. I was in medical school, aiming to be a doctor when the virus hit. I met Kurapika around four years after.” 

Kurapika hums. “Leorio and I met after my entire family was slaughtered by a hostile faction. We ran into each other while hiding out at night and begrudgingly worked together. We met with Gon and Kite a few months later.” 

“Kite and Gon were close.” Leorio says, averting his gaze up at the ceiling in thought. “They—They were inseparable. Like father and son. When we got to their bunker, everyone teased them about being related, y’know?” 

Leorio and Kurapika laugh quietly. 

Killua stares, feeling the mood dampen. 

“They’d always say things like, _‘Kite, we know you’re Gon’s father, no need to hide it’,_ and he’d deny it, but body language never lies—and his eyes would always soften.” 

That gets a chuckle out of Killua. “A real softie?”

“Yeah,” They say in unison. 

The three of them share a laugh.

“Kite was a virologist. He was actually on the original team with the CDC looking for a cure when the issue really started showing in animals.” Leorio says, “Y’know—rabid animals that kept testing back negative for rabies? I remember reading about it on my way to class one day. They were recruiting even us medical students to work for hospitals.” 

Kurapika leans forward, propping himself up with his elbows on his knees, fingers intertwined. “It was Kite and Ging, Gon’s father, actually, who worked together in the CDC.”

Leorio nods. “Kite was the one researching the cure. He knew everything of the current research, and it was hard to explain it to the rest of us. When he died, well, we didn’t really have much to go off. It’s like we lost everything.” 

Killua bites his lip. 

“Kite was the one who taught Gon some mechanics—taught him to tag the walls with Mito’s name and some coded directions. At first, the messages would lead her to the bunker. But,” Kurapika says, taking a deep breath. “We were starting to run out of space at the bunker.” 

“We were taking in refugees left and right. Anyone who needed help, if they had things to offer in skills, we took them in. So Kite and Gon started scavenging for a new base.” 

Killua shifts, pressing his lips together, fingers twitching with the urge to go see Gon and caress his skin. Wants to hold Gon close and reassure him that nothing was his fault, and that it was okay to miss Kite. Especially when Kite gave Gon so much. 

“Scavenging was their thing. It was like father and son bonding time. They’d found a prison, this very one, actually, but never had the chance to step in and check if it was clear before shit started going downhill.” 

They both take a deep breath. 

Killua steels himself—steadies his breath and grips the fabric of his pants.

“We were starting to get well-known. There was talk about us. Gon and Kite would scavenge hospitals and clinics for supplies—anything that would help Kite with furthering research. But it also meant others were hearing of us.” 

Kurapika shakes his head, seemingly reliving those memories. “The Chimera Ants were a notorious faction. They raided factions and killed their people, sometimes even capturing some humans for food, or so the rumor goes.” 

Killua grimances, remembering _very_ well. He remembers gripping both Alluka and Nanika tight every night, remembers barely sleeping out of fear they’d be found—fear that the loud steps outside when Screamers passed were instead the Chimera Ants. He remembers when they _did_ pass them, loud and chattering and uncaring, shooting random shots into the sky and hollering in laughter. 

Killua only remembers the fear. The smell of death. Remembers the voices in his head pleading, that if they were found, they’d take him instead. Eat him alive so that Alluka and Nanika survived. 

Killua remembers struggling to count the seconds between every breath, pressing his hand into Alluka’s mouth and pushing the blanket to cover Nanika in the middle of the night, when the ruckus had stopped in front of the ruined building they were in. 

_He only ever remembers fear before Gon._

_Still_ remembers it. 

“What happened?” He asks, voice small and posture curling into itself just slightly. 

Leorio scoffs. “Exactly what you think happened. They raided us one night. Took all our supplies—killed a lot of our people. They left us bare.” He rubs his temple, and then runs his hand down his face as he sighs. 

Kurapika continues for him. 

“We weren’t okay, but a lot of us still remained. And then, Screamers came. Every type you could think of. Mutated or not, they broke in from every direction. Most came in through the sections the Chimera’s had destroyed. Kite got bit protecting Gon from a Screamer coming for him.” 

“From what Leorio had first told me, it was bad. The Screamer was a mutated one. The infection spreads faster if they’re mutated, I’m sure you know.”

Killua nods. 

“But it wasn’t just a bite. Kite had already lost an arm from one of the Chimera Ants as payment for his trouble.” Kurapika spits out the word. “Kite was already weak, we were going to cauterize the wound with the campfire. But then the mutated Screamer tore into his side, latched onto him until Gon put a bullet through its head when he was finally able to react.” 

Killua sucks in a breath. Sharp and unrestrained. 

“I wasn’t there when Gon put the bullet through Kite’s head.” Leorio says, looking at Killua with a torn expression. “But we heard the screams and cries. It was pure anguish. Ikalgo and I were rushing refugees out, and we went back in when we realized both Gon and Kite were missing. By the time we found Gon, he was gripping Kite’s body and sobbing.” 

The realization settles, even if he already knew. The true impact of the words hit Killua— _hard._ “He had to kill him.” 

Kurapika nods. “Leorio and Ikalgo practically had to tear Gon away from Kite, and all he did was kick and scream Kite’s name.” 

“We were lost, we didn’t know what to do, but the sun was rising.” 

Leorio leans back into the chair, spreading his thighs apart and rubbing his neck with the pads of his fingers in thought. 

“It’s funny. Everything went to shit in a single night. Four years of building and it was all gone. Gon stepped up almost immediately. Took the remainder of our camp to the prison. It took a few days to clear it all out, and a month or so of tinkering for Gon to get the generators back up and running. But we did it. We fortified it with whatever we could find.” 

Killua leans forward. “And the cure?”

“Gone.” A sigh. “Kite was the only one who knew anything about it. What little he _did_ write down, was torn apart during the raid. That means that the only other person we know who knows—”

“Is Ging.” Killua breathes. 

_Fuck_. 

And Ging’s whereabouts are unknown. Mito’s location is unknown. Gon had— _has—_ lost his entire family. Everything is faded and a memory, and he’s still clinging onto Mito’s image and the fact that their family photo wasn’t in his home. He’s clinging onto the memories.

Killua wonders, in that moment, if maybe Gon doesn’t scavenge simply to look for supplies—but to keep whatever distant memory he has left of Kite close too. 

The room is quiet. 

Gon is laying beside Killua, arms wrapped around his bare chest, and everything is calm. It’s them—Killua and Gon—in their own little world, where happiness is always there, and love is always present. Where time continues ticking, and Killua continues counting. 

Killua is holding Gon close, arms resting on his hips, pressing a gentle kiss to Gon’s forehead and smiling. He threads his fingers through Gon’s hair, makes a sound akin to a hum when the thick locks of black stick out in every direction, longer than usual. 

“Mm, Gon,” Killua says, voice comfortable and deep, “Maybe we should cut your hair.” 

Gon hums in question. 

“Yeah, we can cut it today—I’ll trim it a bit for you.” 

A breathy laugh, and Gon tightens his grip around Killua, coming closer, their chests pressing together. 

“‘M not sure if that’ll be the case.” He slurs, a small smile on his lips. “I remember the last time you cut it.” 

Killua can’t contain the chuckle that bubbles past his throat, snaking his hand down the planes of Gon’s tan skin and running his thumb on the skin of his hip—a repeated motion of back and forth, softly. 

“I’m blaming that completely on the scissors.” Killua says, “The scissors were rusty as hell.” 

They both share a low laugh.

“Then I guess you have to let me cut your hair too.”

And Gon is pushing up against the single pillow, angling his head up for a kiss, and Killua has no problem in obliging—leaning forward to capture his lips, movements languid as a smile forms on both their lips. 

Killua presses away after a long moment, looking into Gon’s eyes tenderly. 

“Are you going to be my barber now, cutting my hair all nice?” 

Gon’s smile widdens, and he reaches down, tangling their fingers together and pressing their foreheads together, giving out a slow breath. Killua’s heart is beating with Gon’s, he’s sure of it. 

The bed is so warm. The space between them is so, so warm. Everything is warm. Killua could bask here all day, holding Gon like this and whispering to him softly. He could lay here and reminisce with him—make small plans for the day, maybe offer to eat dinner in their room instead. 

“How do you feel?” He’s careful about his question. Tries to make the edges as supple and rounded as possible. 

“About what happened?” Gon asks, looking at his eyes once again. 

Killua nods. 

It takes Gon a second—takes him a moment to find the right words. “A little better… You being here—you being here, it doesn’t take it away, but it soothes it.” 

Relief pools in Killua’s stomach, and he can’t help but press another kiss to Gon’s forehead. 

“I’m glad.” 

He relaxes further into the bed, into Gon’s presence and being. 

Gon gives a small laugh. “We should really get out of bed now. It’s probably mid-day.” 

Even though Gon says this, Killua doesn’t feel him move a single inch on the bed. If anything, he sinks further into Killua’s embrace. 

“Mmm, five more minutes, baby?” 

A soft, incredulous chuckle. 

“Alright, _corazón_.” 

Killua shuts his eyes after Gon, fingers clenching and unclenching on the fat of Gon’s hips, a reassuring action that has him hearing Gon’s breathing even out within seconds. 

And then a sound is disturbing the silence. 

It ripples and distorts their moment into nothing, because both Killua and Gon’s walkie-talkie go off. And Zushi’s hurried voice is coming through. 

“Gon—The Zoldyck Naval Refugee Camp...they’re here. They’re just—they’re coming in.” 

Killua’s eyes snap open—he tenses and shakes and his breathing becomes uneven, and Gon is scrambling up and out of their bed, shrugging on a shirt and pulling on a pair of pants. Killua doesn’t know what to do, staring at Gon with wide eyes, mouth agape, struggling for his breath. 

His vision swarms, and he swallows, trying to get rid of the dryness in his throat. 

“Killua—” Gon’s voice is hurried. “Killua, you have to hide.”

Killua is looking at nothing. His eyes are staring at the ground, but not picking up a single thing. Sweat forms on his forehead and nape. His hands feel clammy. 

He swallows again. “Alluka and Nanika—” 

“I’ll tell them to come here, go—go, you need to hide, _please_.” 

A nod. Another nod. More and more, Killua continues nodding his head—exhaling and inhaling through his mouth. 

Gon cups his cheeks roughly, smashes their lips together and rushes for the door. 

The voices in Killua’s head erupt. A soundwave that explodes, a constant ringing. They clamor for attention. The door is opening again, and Alluka and Nanika are stepping inside, shutting it quickly behind them. Alluka is swift as she pulls Nanika along, looking around the room in a frenzy. 

“Killua—”

_Snap out of it._

_They’ll kill her._

_They’ll kill his little sisters._

Killua takes a deep breath, eyes hardening. 

He reaches for a discarded shirt on the ground—pulls on his pants quickly and grips the two-way radio, lowers the volume with the dial. 

“Pull off your shoes, c’mere, _hurry_.” 

Alluka is quick, hand still gripping Nanika’s as she kicks off her boots, and Killua takes them—hides them under the covers of the unmade bed. He puts Nanika’s there too. 

“ _Kiruah_ …” Nanika’s voice is confused and small. Killua’s features crumble, and he takes her face into his hands, cupping her cheeks gently despite the hammering of his heart. 

“Big brother is going to take care of this, okay Nanika? It’s alright. I need you to be quiet until I tell you it’s okay.” 

She nods, fingers curling around his wrist. 

Alluka takes Killua’s hand. Grips it tight and looks at him straight in the eyes. 

“Big brother? What are you going to do?”

Killua reaches down for his knife on the floor, gripping the handle and looking around the room. 

“Help me move this.” He points at the small table top near the door.

Alluka lets go of Nanika’s hand and grips one side of the furniture. 

“Where?” 

“Here, against this wall. Under the vent.” 

They put it against the wall towards the corner of the room. Killua gets on the wooden thing, stepping carefully as to not fall, quickly unscrewing the nails on the ceiling with his knife. He holds the unscrewed nails in his mouth as he undoes the opening to the vent, nimble fingers working quickly. 

It clicks open before nearly falling, and Killua scrambles off the table. 

“Alluka—go first. I’ll help you pull up Nanika after.” 

She nods, clambering onto the table, fingers tightening around the cold metal and pulling herself up, muscles straining with little effort as she huffs and swings before Killua is pushing her up too.

“You need to be quiet up there. The sound echoes and travels.” 

Another nod. She’s reaching down for Nanika, and Killua is helping her up the table, pushing her up into Alluka’s arms. She’s not as strong, limbs quivering under the force of it all, but they manage. Once she’s up, Killua is gripping onto the metal himself—the cold chilling his fingers, and he’s working quick, pulling himself up and entering into the other way of the vent, despite the space Alluka had made. 

He places the vent cover back on, loosely trying to shove the screws back into its holes the opposite way. 

Alluka is staring at him. Killua looks back up at her. 

She understands. 

Even if Nanika doesn’t catch on, extending her arm out for him—he shakes his head and smiles, beginning to crawl the opposite way of them. 

He hears a low gurgling from Nanika as he recedes further, and Alluka’s quiet shushing, and he presses his lips together in an effort to stop the choked breath from leaving him—shuts his eyes to keep the tears there. He can hear them crawl further and further away from him. 

This is fine. 

This is how it should be.

At the very least, if they find Killua, they won’t find Alluka or Nanika. 

And then Killua stops. 

Killua stops, because he remembers in their cell room, their name is there. It’s sitting there, against the window, drawn onto cardboard. His name, and Alluka’s, and Nanika’s. Written in crayon and embellished with little dots and circles and hearts. 

He feels his heart freeze—stop beating and struggle to pump, drop low into his stomach and stay there. He moves a little faster, as quietly as he can, to where he knows the vents turn in direction and lead him down to the building hallway. Where he’ll have a clear view of his room. 

The cold metal burns against the palm of his hand as he crawls, but he barely registers it, and as soon as he’s turning through the cramped space, he’s heading straight down, passing three vent openings until he reaches the one near his room. He’s just under it, and—

—The cardboard… isn’t there? 

Killua’s breath stops. He listens closely, strains his hearing to see if he can pick up anyone talking, anyone shouting his name. 

But then Ikalgo is walking out of their room, whistling, and it clicks within Killua what he’d done. 

Removed the cardboard, maybe tore it apart—maybe hid it somewhere or took it with him. Killua isn’t sure, but the ability to breathe comes back all together again. He’s not sure how long he stays in the vent, forehead pressed against the cool metal, until he hears _them._

He hears Gon first—his tone stern and cold. 

“I’ve already told you—no one by that name has been here. You’re welcome to continue looking, but we don’t know any Killua Zoldyck.”

They’re walking fast.

Gon gets no reply. And Killua can’t see anything from the vent opening until they’re walking directly under him, and Killua catches the sight of pinned-up hair and a black uniform. His breathing stutters, and Killua covers his mouth in an effort not to make a single sound. 

“Nonsense.” Her voice is high-pitched. Killua knows that voice. “That lowlife came to the Zoldyck Naval Base saying he knew my Kill was here.” 

It grows quiet. 

Killua swallows thickly. 

“What ‘lowlife’ c—”

She stops walking abruptly. The clicking of her heels stop. Killua can hear her turn but he can’t see her, and his breathing becomes shallow. Worried—worried, he’s so worried. God, Gon is standing right there. They’re _here_. 

“If my Kill is here,” Her voice is low and menacing, dripping with a poison, “If he’s here and you’re hiding my son from me…” She laughs. 

“I’ll have your head.” 

The words are so final. 

Tears line Killua’s eyes and he presses his lips together—bites the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out to Gon.

“General Kikyo—” Someone else calls out, Killua doesn’t recognize their voice. 

He zones out. 

God—God, fuck. 

They’re _here._

They’re here and they’ll find him and they’ll kill Gon. They’ll _kill_ him, without hesitation. Without hesitation, because Gon had made them out to be a fool and hid him—hid him from their sight for so long, and it’ll have been all Killua’s fault, when he could’ve just shown himself from the beginning. 

He could’ve reduced the damage. 

“This base is nice.” 

They’re walking further. Killua crawls with them, slowly. Follows them down the hall, that Killua knows leads to the cafeteria. 

“We’ve spent a long time working on it.” Gon’s voice is void of all amusement. It’s not holding the lilt Killua adores, and the edges of his words have been sharpened and menacing, low in tone. 

“Really?” Kikyo, his mother’s, voice is mocking. “Really now, you can’t expect this place to be better than a Naval Base. If you hand my Kill over, I’ll consider letting your people in.”

It’s a threat. 

She’s _threatening_ Gon.

Killua’s lips wobble. 

“I’d assume that means I’d get killed, since I’m the leader.” 

A laugh, loud and high-pitched and obnoxious. It rings and echoes throughout the empty cafeteria. 

There are more footsteps entering the cafeteria. 

“Kikyo, sweetheart.” 

_Fuck._

“There’s nothing in the other building. Our men are searching the remaining buildings and fields.” 

Killua can hear his mother growl in frustration—can hear her walk close to his father and wail dramatically about wanting to find him, _her Kill,_ at all costs. About bringing him _home._ Killua can’t believe half the shit spewing from her mouth—the utter lies she continues to say. He’s not a person to them. He’s not. He’s a possession.

Just a possession. 

And then there’s a shift—they’re speaking lowly, and Killua wants to _hear._ He crawls closer, hears something about the _liar_ and how they’ll kill him. Gon? God, please not Gon. Anyone but Gon. They mutter and murmur and mumble, clawing at Killua’s sanity. 

And then it only gets worse. 

Because Killua can handle his parents. He can handle their threats. But when he picks up that voice? Hearing his eldest brother’s dry voice, emotionless and perfect and everything his parents wanted Killua to be, just down the hall and steadily approaching? Shivers burst like fireworks on Killua’s skin, hands clammy and nape drenched in sweat. 

His eyes widen and he struggles to close his mouth, gaping like a fish out of water. 

“Killu isn’t in the other buildings.” 

_Illumi—_

_—Illumi is here._

They’re going to find him. 

If not this time, then another time. 

Someone will rat him out. 

They’ll come again and find him, and they’ll kill Gon. They’ll kill Gon for having held Killua here, safe in his arms. 

Killua’s breathing quickens. His hands tremble. 

They’ll kill Gon for being his lover and kill Gon for being an obstruction to them. They’ll come again after the third time. That time, they’ll come without warning. They’ll just come in—barge in—and Gon will be unprepared. Gon won’t be ready, and they’ll see Killua holding Gon, Gon holding Killua…

And they’ll just kill Gon. 

_He can’t breathe._

They’ll point the gun, or the knife, or whatever nice weaponry they have stacks of at the base—chock-full of supplies they selfishly won’t distribute. And they’ll kill him.

They’ll kill Gon. 

Killua presses his forehead against the cold vent once again in an effort to try and calm himself. 

But his brain spirals. 

Then they’ll find Nanika. They’ll find Nanika, and take her—either kill her or experiment on his little sister. _They’ll just kill her,_ another part of his brain argues. They won’t care. They won’t care if she's part of the family. She wasn’t important. 

_She wasn’t Killua._

And neither was Alluka. 

They’ll separate them. 

They’ll tear them apart and leave Killua hollow and empty. 

A shaky exhale. 

Killua has become so dependent on Gon. 

And Gon hasn’t—

—Gon is still struggling, and if they take Killua away, Gon will be destroyed. 

_But then_ , another part of him argues, _Gon wouldn’t let that happen either. Gon would fight every last breath for you._

He grinds his teeth and shuts his eyes tightly, furrowing his eyebrows to keep the cry bubbling in his chest muted. He feels like sobbing—like his chest is going to burst if he keeps this in any longer. The vents will surely echo. They’ll hear him if he does. He needs to be careful.

Needs to be _careful._

_Or maybe he just needs to leave._

“My Kill,” Kikyo wails loudly. None of the other family members try to comfort her. They stay silent. “It’s been nine years, I just want to see my son.” 

She sniffles and uses a handkerchief from her breast pocket to dab at her face. Killua can barely see her from the vents. But he assumes her eyes must be as dead as ever. White and dead, with an ugly scar in-between. 

“Kikyo, we’ve been searching here for an hour. The soldiers checked every last room.” 

“He’s not here?” Killua isn’t sure if she’s feigning the distress in her voice or not. 

Silence. 

No one speaks. 

Killua can’t believe this is happening.

There are footsteps that stop right below the vent he’s in. 

He hadn’t been able to see Illumi, but now he can. 

He hasn’t changed a single bit.

Still wearing his ridiculous uniform, long hair sweeping down, eyes scanning the room. 

And Killua senses he’s about to look up. 

He pulls away from the vent opening. He doesn’t dare peek again. 

Doesn’t dare risk it. 

Illumi’s eyes are sharp. They’re so, so sharp. 

“Mother,” Illumi’s voice is empty, “Killu isn’t here. We should get going. The outside isn’t good for you.” 

She cries petulantly. Clicks her heels against the worn tiles and sobs out Killua’s name. 

Killua has half the mind to cover his ears, but doesn’t, in fear. 

“I just want to see my son!” She cries out. Killua hears her turn. “You understand don’t you?”

_Is she talking to Gon?_

“It’s been so long. I’ve waited for so long. You’ll understand soon, when you have a child. You’ll understand the pain of being separated. I just want to see my Kill.” 

She sounds so genuine. 

Killua knows that part isn’t a lie.

“I understand.” Gon’s voice— “I know very well what you feel. But Killua Zoldyck isn’t someone we know or have come across. I’m sorry.”

Gon—

A sigh. Stepping. Those aren’t his mother’s footsteps. Those are heavier, larger. They’re his father’s. 

“If you see him,” Silva says, “This is a reference. Report it to our base. We want to see him.” 

Gon makes a noncommittal hum of agreement.

“Do you know where the Zoldyck Naval Refugee Camp is?”

“Yeah. I’ve passed it—hard to miss it with how fortified it is. It’s about three weeks time from here on foot.” 

“Right. We expect to hear from you if you find him.” 

_They still don’t believe Gon. They don’t believe Killua isn’t here._

“Mm.” 

“Round up the soldiers. We’ve been in this pathetic base long enough.” 

“Yes, General Kikyo.” 

Then the footsteps are receding. 

Killua doesn’t move a single muscle.

He’s not sure he’s registered everything that just happened. He’s not sure how much time has passed at all—between clambering up into the vent and staying inside this dusty thing. He’s not sure how long time passes before he hears Gon’s hurried footsteps afterwards. 

“Killua?” 

Does he call out? Or does he stay silent?

“Killua—” Kilua hears rustling, and then Gon is speaking again. He hears the familiar click of the walkie-talkie. “ _Corazón_ , where are you?” 

Shaky hands reach for the pocket of his pants, and Killua digs for the radio until he feels the antenna. He pulls out and turns the volume dial up. 

“Up here…” His voice is fragile and shaken, wobbling and broken.

“Where?” 

“In the vents—I’ll… I’ll crawl out, just. Just give me a second.” 

Killua doesn’t hide the shuffling of his form in the vents anymore. He just wants to get out. Get out, and hold Gon, and apologize. Apologize over and over, until he exhausts the word and it’s the only thing he knows how to do. Apologize for the trouble, and the panic. 

Gon is stepping around wildly, footsteps hurried as he makes his way to the closest vent and pushes a table under it. He starts unscrewing the bolts with a knife, fingers working quickly, and he lets the bolts drop to the ground, practically ripping off the cover from the ceiling. 

And he’s pulling Killua down, fingers gripping his shirt and holding him. Killua is sure he can feel the cold imprinted on his skin.

Gon’s hands are holding him so tightly—wrapped around him into a crushing hug, and he’s pushing Killua’s head into his neck only after checking his face and seeing the crumbling of his features. 

“It’s okay, Killua.”

_No it’s not._

“They’ve left.”

_They’ll be back._

Gon whispers and hums and soothes Killua’s back, runs circles over and over patiently. 

_Killua needs to leave._

The paper feels weird against the pads of his fingers. 

It’s rough, torn and worn and stained. The words written are painted with dried tears of agony—drawn carefully with woven words of remorse—intricate and small, scratched on with a piece of charcoal from the campfire. 

His lips press against warm skin—a gentle caress against his forehead. 

Detached. 

_Detach yourself._

_For him._

Quivering inhale, shaky exhale. 

Brace yourself, step away. 

Step away from the bleeding heart. Away from this ticking clock. 

Step quietly, pull the blankets up and cover him, and get away from him. Get away—away, away and away, until you’re nothing but a speck. 

Open the door; shut it slowly. Keep your steps light and strides long and swallow your pain. 

Killua continues stepping, head down, clenching his fingers into tight balls until his knuckles strain white. Until he risks breaking the skin. He presses his lips together in an effort not to make a sound, and continues walking. On, and on; one foot in front of the other.

 _Don’t forget who you’re doing this for_. 

He enters another room. The door creaks softly, and Killua comes in. Their chests rise and fall with every breath peacefully. A bitter smile forms on Killua’s face. He comes forward, fingers dancing against the strands of identical black hair. Presses kisses to both their foreheads. 

“ _Kih—Kiruah…”_

“Shh…” He passes his hand on her head, pats her softly. “Big brother only came to say goodnight.” 

Ruffling, a nod, and then a press back into the pillows to sleep. 

_He steps away. From another two lives._

Gets to the door with no interruption.

Open, close. Shut them out—walk away.

And then a voice. 

A voice that breaks the silence and melancholy. 

“So this is it?”

He pauses in his step, hand out-stretched for the front door. He’s so close.

“You’re just going to leave? Leave him?” 

The words sting. 

Sting him to the very core. 

His hand falls by his side.

He exhales and lifts his head—but he doesn’t turn. He won’t turn. 

After a beat of silence, he speaks: 

“Thanks, y’know, for the other day—the window.” 

Killua doesn’t get a response. 

That enough, is a response in and of itself. 

His hand grips the door—pushes open. 

_Grind your teeth, keep your head up._

Killua counts:

One. 

He’s lying in bed with him. 

Killua is lying beside him, looking at him. Grazing his sides softly, ticking his skin and a small smile gracing his lips. They’re together again, basking in each other’s warmth, and Gon is beyond happy—filled with butterflies and love. Filled with yearning and admiration, Gon gives a small laugh, intertwining their fingers together. 

“Mm, give me another kiss?” Killua’s voice is rough with sleep. Gon’s heart beats faster, and he colors red, a smile splaying his features. 

He tilts his head up and presses another kiss to Killua’s lips. 

Leans back, ready to pull himself closer to Killua. 

_Something crumbles._

_A small piece of something falls on the bed._

Gon ignores it, chalks it up to the old building. 

Killua holds him closer and smiles. 

_Another piece crumbles._

_And another._

_More crumbling._

Gon finally looks up, right when the ceiling is crashing through, and a giant hand is coming down—ugly and blue and veiny and rotting. It reaches down, uncaring for the blanket and tugging Killua away. Pulls him from Gon’s grasp and lifts him further and further. 

He can’t reach him. 

The hand holds Killua—a compliant Killua, dormant and passive and submissive under the hands grip. 

“I’ve always known.”

Gon’s eyes widen. Crimson red drips from Killua’s eyes—dark, thick pools of red. He doesn’t know what it is. 

“You aren’t good enough.”

“I left you, too.” 

“Worthless.”

“I thought you’d be more.”

“You disappointed me.”

“You’re just nothing.”

“Pathetic.” 

The words clamour. Killua’s voice. It’s all Killua’s voice. Gon covers his head, cover’s his ears and shuts his eyes and rocks himself and tries to keep himself together because it’s not Killua, that’s not Killua—Killua wouldn’t, Killua wouldn’t say those things about him, or to him. 

“I regret meeting you.” 

A choked gasp. Gon’s eyes snap open. 

All he can hear in the darkness of the room is the whisper of Killua’s voice, blandly telling him not to follow. 

_Where am I?_

_In your room, another voice answers._

Crickets are chirping. Gon is panting, struggling to catch his breath, body rigid and upright and he’s gripping the sheets tightly. Killua—

Killua’s arms aren’t where they should be. 

Gon turns, looks left and right and Killua isn’t there. His spot in the bed is empty, and it’s hard for Gon to breath—to find it in himself to calm down. Call—He needs to call Killua. 

He scrambles for the walkie-talkie, fingers grasping the cold microphone and turning the dial, changing the frequency to the one he uses for Killua and himself. He needs—he needs Killua, needs Killua next to him and to hold him and tell him it’s alright, to reassure him. 

A rough swallow, Gon’s voice speaks into the microphone when he clicks the button. 

“Kih—Killua, where are you?”

_“Kih—Killua, where are you?”_

He scrambles to look around—hearing his own voice come back to him. Gon presses the button again. 

“Killua?”

_“Killua?”_

Static sounds as Gon’s finger doesn’t lift from the speak button. He makes a sound of confusion, following the noise, turning and seeing Killua’s walkie-talkie sitting there, over a piece of folded paper. The radio sits, mocking him, and his trembling fingers reach out to grasp it—unfold it and inspect it. 

He opens the paper carefully, eyes quickly scanning the paragraphs, reading every mark and every curve of each letter slowly. Gon pauses, breathing speeding up all over again, heart pounding in his chest. 

The words—

—He’s reading the words and they don’t make any sense. 

Gon reads them, over and over and over again.

Again.

_Again._

They don’t make sense. 

A muddled sob tears past his throat. 

“ _Hello sunshine,”_

The letter is stained with tears. That’s the first thing Gon sees. Besides the handwriting, smeared in some parts, curved in others from years of disuse. 

_“If you’re reading this, it means I found the courage within myself to actually do the right thing, and not just crumple the paper and get back into bed with you and pretend everything is okay. These times have been hard, everything has been unbelievably unbearable ever since the virus broke out. I didn’t find peace in this ruined world since the virus broke, until you came into our sights.”_

Gon’s fingers skim the faint wet patches of tears. 

_“You brought life into my life, sunshine. I hope you like the nickname, it took me a while to come up with something as clever as corazon; isn’t it ironic that the moment I find a special nickname for you, is when I’m bidding my final goodbye? You taught me there is still so much I can do and so much worth living. For me, that’s you.”_

Tears line his eyes. Rock a trembling sob out of him. 

_“This is why I’ve decided to go and, begrudgingly, leave you behind: I want you safe and sound. Goodbye’s aren’t ever good, and I won’t lie and say it was easy, because it wasn’t, but I just hope that in a remote future, when this is all done and over and the youth won’t know what fearing for your life is, you’ll be happy witho—”_

Gon drops the paper. 

Drops the paper onto the ground and feels a silent scream wrack its way from his throat—tear open his mouth as he claws at his chest and feels the pain amplify. Amplify worse, and worse—worse than Kite dying, worse than getting bit. Because this—this wasn’t something he couldn’t keep from happening. This was a choice.

Killua _chose_ to leave him. 

This wasn’t an unpreventable, unpredictable event. 

This.

Was.

A.

Choice. 

A

**C**  
**H**  
**O**  
**I**  
**C**  
**E**  
**.**  
**.**  
**.**

**The voices erupt.**

Gon can’t. 

He can’t—he can’t, he can’t, he can’t— _can’t._

Gon scrambles up—nearly trips in his feet tangled in the sheets and his breath is bated and he’s running out the door, the pads of his feet slamming against the ground and all he can think about is Killua—Killua’s voice and smile and _them_. Killua can’t be far, right? Killua won’t be far. He’ll be near and Gon can convince him to come back and they’ll be happy and okay and— 

_They’ll continue to wake up in each other's arms._

The door slams open. He doesn’t know where he’s going—doesn’t know what to grab or how much he’ll need, but he needs to go. Killua—Gon swallows a heavy breath—Killua can’t be far. 

Gon can go to the armory first—grab a knife and a gun and maybe a bow and some arrows. 

He passes the cafeteria. There are a few refugees staring as he hurries by. Knuckle stands. 

He opens the door to the small room for weapons and blindly grabs a handful of what he needs. Fingers grip and stash whatever he _thinks_ he’ll need. Numbers don’t matter. It doesn’t matter. 

Gon nearly cries when he sees no weapons are missing. Just a single gun and some ammo.

_Does he need to eat?_

_He doesn’t think he can stomach it._

When Gon sees that most of their rations are close to full—nearly untouched and nothing missing—his stomach drops to the floor. He feels the uneasiness and realization slip in. Killua didn’t take any food with him. Killua barely took anything to eat. There are still vegetables, and fruits, and rice and meat and bread and—

“Gon.” 

_There’s no time._

“I’m going out for a scavenge, I’m leaving Knuckle and Shoot in charge—”

“Gon—”

“—until I find Killua and bring him back.” 

A hand roughly grabs his wrist to keep him in place. Gon tugs, and when the hand doesn’t let go, he keeps walking—strapping on the belt for his knives and arrows. Another hand grabs his shoulder—they’re trying to stop him. This is wasting _time_. 

Tears fill his eyes in frustration.

Ikalgo and Zushi are grabbing him, eyes pleading, fingers wrung into his shirt. 

“Let go—”

“You’re not listening—”

“Gon—”

“I _know_ what I’m doing!” Gon raises his voice, and yet they don’t even flinch. Don’t flinch or let go and just hold him tighter. Gon feels the tears slip from the anger of it all. 

_Killua left._

Zushi speaks hurriedly. “Gon, you’re not thinking straight!” 

“I need to find Killua!” He says back, voice just as desperate. 

Gon tears free from their grasp—taking quick steps forward and he almost makes it out of the cafeteria when Ikalgo’s hands grab his waist and pull him back. And Gon can’t control himself when he shouts out, clawing at Ikalgo’s thick arms, _to let him go_ , _damn it!_

“Relax!”

“Let—Let go!” 

When Gon breaks free of their grasp and makes it two steps before being tackled down again, it’s Ikalgo who’s holding him down with even more strength. Zushi is pulling on his wrist, but _Ikalgo?_ He’s gripping Gon down and keeping him in place without being unable to move an inch and a noise of frustration bubbles past Gon’s lips as more tears fall from his eyes. 

_Killua didn’t intend on coming back._

“You’re being stupid!”

“Killua didn’t leave with anything—he’s going to _die.”_

“And what are you going to do, huh?!” Ikalgo bellows, face flushed in anger, veins throbbing at his neck. He shakes Gon roughly by his shoulders. “What are you going to go? Go ahead, tell me! Are you going to go out there with a single _fucking_ switchblade and no food? All just to die with him?” 

Gon stills—feels the emotions crash like a wave over him. Drown him and suffocate him. 

Knuckle is in front of him, taking slow steps. 

“Gon.” 

His voice is level-headed. It’s calm and low and everything Gon currently isn’t.

Gon looks up at him through furrowed eyebrows and blurry vision and gritted teeth. He struggles to cap down on the anger and desperation. 

Knuckle’s hand comes up and softly comes to settle on his shoulder. 

“Calm down.” 

His voice gives finality. 

“Breathe.” 

_Can he? Can he breathe? Breathe without Killua here, out and about and somewhere not safe?_

He forces himself to take a shaky breath regardless. 

“Better?”

Gon shakes his head, because _no_ , it isn’t better. This isn’t better. Taking a moment to breathe? It only makes him more mad. 

“It’s alright. We’re going to look for Killua and we’re going to find him. Just not right now.” When Gon’s features contort, ready to protest, Knuckle brings up his index finger to silence him—like he’s a _child._ “Going out right now, without any valuable weapons or resources, it means we’re fresh meat for Screamers.” 

He doesn’t reply immediately. He just stares silently at Knuckle. Takes in his features: his worry, his jutted lips, like he’s about to cry—he’s always been a softie. 

One small exhale, one small inhale. 

“And it’s okay,” Ikalgo says, voice more calmed, “Killua is fine. It hasn’t been long since he’s left.” 

Gon stops mid-breath, eyes snapping to Ikalgo.

How does he know?

_Not even Gon knows when Killua left._

Unless…

_Unless._

Gon’s eyes harden.

“What do you mean? How do you know it hasn’t been long?” 

Ikalgo can’t seriously mean—

When he doesn’t reply, Gon prods at him more. “Did you see Killua leave? When did he leave? Why didn’t you _stop him?”_

Not a single response. Nothing. Ikalgo opens and closes his mouth and can’t offer a single answer. 

“He left a little over two hours ago. While the sun was rising.” 

_Two hours_. 

Gon schools his features into indifference. He needs to—needs to calm down so he can leave faster. 

He shrugs Ikalgo’s hands off him, eyes hard-pressed, staring him down. The anger boils within, threatening to spill. He caps it down. Caps it all down. 

“You didn’t stop him.” 

He doesn’t reply—but his facial expression melts into despair. 

Gon turns. Turns and pulls himself free of everyone’s grip. And they let him—they release him with little resistance once it looks like he’s calmed and rational. 

He doesn’t feel that. 

“Killua didn’t take anything with him.” Is the first thing he decides to say. “Only one weapon is missing, and a bit of food, I’m sure, if we inspect the rations. 

Knuckle sighs. “So what are we going to do?” 

“Nothing.” 

Everyone turns to him, surprised. 

Gon furrows his brows. “ _We_ aren’t going to do anything. This is on me. I’m the one who has to bring him back.” 

_The word Home_ lingers on his tongue, unused. 

_It’s he who has to bring Killua back._

_The Killua from his nightmare replays freshly in his mind._

“Gon?” It’s Alluka’s voice ringing out, coming from down the hall. She’s rubbing her eyes tiredly. Nanika is trailing behind her. “What’s going on?”

“What’s going on—” Knuckle says, talking over Gon before he has the chance to explain, “is that Gon thinks he’s going to get Killua back all by himself.” 

Alluka’s movements still.

“What do you mean back?” 

Her voice is small. 

“Where’s my brother?”

“He left.” Ikalgo says. 

“What do you mean he—”

“ _Kih-Kiruah?”_ Nanika’s voice is even smaller, shaken and quickly comprehending the situation. Alluka takes her hand in comfort.

“Don’t worry. I’m leaving shortly to go after him. I know where he’s going.”

Alluka’s words are blurred together, quick and panicked. “He’s going back to our parents.” 

Gon nods. 

“Then we have to—”

He shakes his head. “I want everyone here. No one leaves. Alluka, I need you here.”

“I need to be out there with you, that’s my _brother_ , Gon.” 

_Don’t get mad. Don’t get mad—she’s upset like you,_ the voice chides. 

He settles his voice deeper. More serious. Schools his eyes back into a hard expression. 

“Alluka. I’m trusting you here. I need you to stay here—look after Nanika. Now I need you to trust _me._ I’ll bring your brother back.” 

When she narrows her eyes and presses her lips together, when she grabs Nanika and pulls her into the cafeteria further for breakfast, even if Gon doesn’t get a response—he knows she’s going to stay. 

Gon sighs. “I’m leaving later today. Maybe in one hour max. Every hour gone is another wasted and another foot in distance.” 

Knuckle doesn’t seem satisfied with the answer Gon gives, but doesn’t argue it. 

“Knuckle, you’re in charge with Shoot until I return. Zushi is too. I want everyone accounted for. No one comes in or out.” 

Finally, Gon can bring himself to look at Ikalgo. 

“I need you manning the front gate as usual.” 

Knuckle grabs his wrist before Gon can move forward. “You need to change into something more suitable, if you’re so set on leaving alone.” 

Gon looks down at himself. Old basketball shorts and a worn shirt. 

“I’ll change and leave. I have everything I need already.” 

“You need food and water—”

“I’ve got it.” Alluka’s voice rings loud and clear. It echoes—angry and at the brink of snapping. 

Gon nods, turning back to Knuckle. “When Kurapika and Leorio wake up, fill them in. I want Kurapika to continue instruction. Leorio continues his research.” 

Knuckle nods in understanding. 

And Gon is setting off, roughly jiggling his door when he arrives at his room and throwing on long sleeves and cargo pants. Boots. Protection. He needs plenty of it, if no longer from Screamers, then from natural causes. The ash. The rain. _How is Killua doing?_

There’s a knock at his door, and Alluka is stepping inside with a tattered bag in her hand. He can see the shape of bowls and a waterskin. He sighs, reaching out, but she pulls away. 

“Listen to me, and listen to me carefully.” 

He frowns but turns his attention to her regardless. 

“You better bring my brother back in one piece, or so help me God, do you understand?” 

“I’m bringing him back to you, Alluka.” 

She nods, thrusting the food and water into his hands. 

“Then get going. Hurry back.” 

Gon takes the items and stuffs it into his backpack—pats his thighs to feel for the knives strapped there, and feels his back pocket for the gun. He checks the ammo—ties his shoelaces twice over. 

Alluka follows him out—calls out to him with a softer voice this time, just a little. It’s only a little softer around the edges, but still retains its rigidness. 

“Gon. Be careful.” 

He gives her a thumbs up, long strides to leave the building faster. 

Faster, and faster—he’s nearly running.

He feels the desperation begin to claw within him once again. 

Gon remembers a lot of things. He remembers when the virus first broke out—when he fought to reach Whale Island from the mainland, stuck there because of his school—struggle and fighting to reach his aunt. He remembers the bodies and the smell and the blood choking the air: no longer sea salt and ocean breeze. He remembers trekking through the forest he thought he knew, but this time fearing the unknown. He remembers running up the hill and opening his front door and finding his home empty—bloody and abandoned and his childhood photograph missing. 

_Gon remembers a lot of things._

Killua is one of them. 

There’s a lot of things to remember about Killua—Gon thinks about him as he travels the barren, abandoned streets. The overgrowth continues to mark the passing of time, and yet with Killua it felt like it had all stopped. Time had stopped just for them, and Gon wouldn't have had it any other way. 

_Time had stopped._

Gon continues walking. He pats the waterskin and drinks a bit—sighing and wiping his mouth and not stopping, not once. He continues forward, and forward, past Lake City and finally reaching the outskirts—onto another road, another highway. Gon isn’t sure which path Killua took, but he’s hoping they’re on the same one. Their destination is the same. 

He remembers Killua’s touch. 

The soft caress of his fingers on his skin. Hands always resting somewhere on his—whether it was his hips or waist or hands. Killua was always pressed near. He was there—an immovable constant and comfort in his life. A luxury in the world when everything else was ruined. 

Perhaps what Gon remembers the most about Killua, though, is his voice. 

Low and calm, like home. Throaty and soft-spoken, always—husky, sometimes. He was quiet, in a lot of ways. In the way he helped around, or the way he offered himself, or the way he loved. He was quiet like that. But that’s not the voice he remembers—he remembers the promises. He reminisces Killua holding him and whispering words against his skin. The thought of it alone sends butterflies fluttering inside his stomach, kind of like the ones he saw on Whale Island. 

And then, Gon remembers the promises, and how Killua broke them all the moment he left. 

The only thing he remembers now, is an ungiven goodbye.

The butterflies fall and twitch.

He’s left to wonder how he’s going to believe Killua after this.

The only thing left buzzing within him is a nest of angry hornets.

Gon isn’t sure of the time. 

He’s not sure if he’s been on the road for six days, or seven days—or was it nine? There’s only turmoil in his thoughts as he continues to traverse the plains of the cities. He passes cities which once towered toward the sky and seemed to bend the will of physics. He passes smaller villages, flattened to the earth and covered in ash. 

Every day, the sun falls, and every day, it rises again. And just like that, anxiety builds and swells within Gon. Because every second longer it takes to find Killua, is a second closer to the Zoldyck Naval Refugee Camp. And Gon can’t stand the thought of it—can’t swallow down the thought that if Killua makes it there, he isn’t ever going to come back. 

The sun is setting—disappearing once again.

Gon stares blankly at the horizon as he continues his walk. A part of him wishes it could disappear too. 

There isn’t much left of his rations—but he’d filled his waterskin with some water again, despite the fact that it looked dirty. He wasn’t completely concerned about the state of the water when there were more important things to concern himself with. 

It’s not exactly safe to travel at night. It’s hard to see, and Screamers are more active—but maybe an extra block or two will get him some more distance. It’ll propel him a little further and a little closer to wherever Killua is. Gon swallows, and adjusts the bag on his back. 

When he crosses another road, making long strides over the debris and plants, he hears it. 

Gun’s firing, one after another, the shots resound and cause the birds which had been sleeping quietly, perched on crumbled buildings, to squawk and fly off into the sky in terror. Gon freezes in his steps—turning his head left, down the road where the noise is coming from. 

Again, and again, and again. 

He realizes, belatedly, that he was wrong. 

It’s a single gun—not multiple. 

It’s a single gun shooting like mad, and Gon’s breath hitches. He could be wrong—he could be wrong and that could be someone else, but—

—But if it’s _Killua?_

Gon’s boots slam against the asphalt as he quickens his steps. One block, two blocks down. The sound is getting closer. He hears it silence for a moment, and then it begins again. 

The firing is getting closer. Gon can hear groans and mutters stop suddenly. Screams that end mid-bite. There’s an open building, a single wall collapsed, roof caved in and windows shattered. But the sound is coming from there. The sound is coming from there and Gon catches a tuft of white hair: his heart races. 

_Killua._

_Killua—that’s Killua._

Gon has found Killua. 

From one of the broken windows, Gon catches him stepping back and leaning down, whipping out his knives. Gon hurries—nearly tripping over his feet as he scrambles to reach the inside—and he leaps in as Killua is handling two Screamers, attention completely off of Gon. 

And he’s tattered. His clothes are stained in blood, his hair is roughed and dirty. His skin is dark and covered in dust or dirt or _something._ Gon isn’t sure what. But Killua is breathing heavy, bags under his eyes, and he looks weak. Killua looks weak and exhausted, form slouched forward, gripping the knife with white knuckles and panting.

As he takes care of one of the Screamers, knife digging deep into its skull, his breath falters and he lets out a noise of panic as the other approaches. He scrambles back, falling onto the ground, and Gon is moving before he knows what he’s doing. 

His own knife plunges deep into the back of the Screamers skull, and it chokes, blood spilling from its wound and mouth. 

It comes falling down all the same, a heap of nothing,, and Killua is breathing heavy, stilling. He stares at Gon with wide eyes, mouth agape, and he swallows roughly—breathing out and making a sound of disbelief. 

“Gon? What—”

Gon digs through his pocket. Tosses a paper on the ground next to Killua with as much force as he can—and the anger comes rising back. It consumes him as he towers over Killua with an indescribable expression. He can’t—he can’t placate this anger. He wants _answers._ But he stays quiet. He lets Killua have his moment—lets Killua process the paper. 

When he realizes what it is—Gon knows. Gon knows, because his face crumbles: his brows furrow and bottom lip wobbles. 

“I don’t want your stupid letter. Is this what you call a goodbye?”

No response. Gon grits his teeth and tightens his fingers into fists, until he can feel the skin under the pressure of his nails ache. 

“Is this how Zoldycks say goodbye, huh?” 

Silence. 

Gon scoffs in disbelief. 

“Then I don’t want it.” 

“I’m sorry—”

He can’t control the way his voice rises. He just can’t. He can’t be bothered. He doesn’t care if anyone hears them. If anything comes. He needs—He needs to let it out. 

“Shut _up!”_

Killua winces, turning his head slightly away. 

“I don’t want, and I don’t need, any of your apologies. I want…” He swallows, steadying his newfound-wobbling voice. “I want a reason. I want to know why.” 

It takes a moment. Killua clearly struggles to formulate a response. 

“They’d kill you.” 

Gon can’t believe it. 

“They’d come back—and they’d cause more trouble. They didn’t believe you—”

_He can’t fucking believe this._

“I don’t care about that, Killua!” Gon hisses, and then he scoffs, releasing the tight grip of his fists and smiling bitterly. “Or what? Were you just sick and tired of—tired of all of us? Of _me?_ Were you just giving me empty promises?” 

Killua’s eyes widen, and he’s shaking his head violently, looking up at Gon, opening and closing his mouth—unable to find the right words. 

“No! No—That’s not true. I was never tired of you. I left because I didn’t want to cause more problems, Gon. I wanted to give you everything I had left before I left. That letter was it.” 

Gon’s heart sinks—it sinks into the pits of his stomach, and he feels it smother all the anger. He takes a quiet breath, and looks down at the ground, to where blood stains the cracked tile and silence wafts between them.

“Running away… you running away and leaving all the pieces behind like a coward is _not_ everything you had to give.” 

His heartbeat slows. And Gon takes a deep breath, turning and giving Killua his back. 

And Killua scrambles up—he’s scrambling up, Gon knows this because he can hear the ruffling of his clothes and the stomp of his feet against the floor—gripping Gon’s wrist to stop him. Stop him from what? Leaving? This conversation is far from over. Or is it? 

Killua pulls Gon around slowly, so that Gon is looking at him. 

And Gon takes in the little differences in his appearance. There’s a scratch just to the right of his chin, small and scabbed. The hand that grips his wrist is rougher than usual—tough and covered in a weird texture. It’s not soft. Killua eyes search his. There’s hurt lying there, beneath the ocean blue. 

Gon presses his lips together, staring straight at Killua, eyes unwavering. “Do you know what a team is? Do you understand?” 

He receives a frown in response. “I know. I know what a team is, but if it meant keeping you and my sisters safe, then I’d give it up.” 

God, Gon wants to rub at his temple in annoyance. Instead, he takes another deep breath. 

“You don’t give it all up. In a team, you don’t make decisions alone, Killua. _We_ are a team.” His voice is stern. “And you left.” 

When Gon tries to shrug Killua’s hold on his wrist off, Killua tightens his hold.

“Let go.” Gon says sternly.

Killua doesn’t. 

“You’ve already let go once. You can do it again.” 

“I didn’t want to cause you trouble, Gon.” 

Gon can’t stand this. Can’t stand looking into Killua’s eyes, looking at his face, any longer. 

“You left.”

“Not out of choice.” 

A crinkle of his nose, a furrow of his brow—an incredulous sound of disbelief. “Choice? There is always a choice, Killua. Not having a choice is you getting bit. Not having a choice is Kite dying in my arms. Not having a choice is turning against your will. You had a choice—you made your decision.”

A shuddering breath, and Gon swallows. He’s trying to keep the tears away. 

He hiccups. “You chose to leave. You packed what little you had and left like I meant nothing.” 

“It wasn’t my choice.” 

Gon can’t rip away from Killua’s grip.

“It _was,_ Killua. That was all you—you’ve… you’ve said your part. I get it.” 

And then Gon can’t stop the tears any longer. They fall uselessly, sliding past his cheeks and wetting his face, and he tries so hard, tries so hard to keep it together and ultimately fails, because a sob wracks past Gon’s throat and then he can’t stop. He still can’t pull away. 

Killua won’t let go. 

So Gon starts pushing towards Killua’s. He shoves and punches Killua’s shoulder weakly as he cries—the force of his blows are too weak, too light and broken. Broken. 

Killua accepts it all. He pulls Gon to the floor, with him, and Gon continues to push and claw at Killua in defeat. And Gon hears Killua’s quieter cries before he sees them. Hears the pained noise, and then looks up at Killua through his own tears and sees his shoulder shaking, tears falling and glistening, and his lip is bit in an attempt to smother the sounds. 

Careful hands cautiously rise, and Killua is wrapping his arms around Gon—not pulling him too close, but trying to soothe him otherwise. The warmth and familiarity of it all makes another cry bubble past his lips, and Gon cries louder.

“‘M sorry.” Killua mumbles. “It was a cheap escape. I shouldn’t have given in. ‘M sorry, Gon.” 

Gon’s forehead is pressed against Killua’s chest, and he grips his shirt, tugging down, shaking his head. “You’re right. You shouldn’t have. You shouldn’t have given in.” 

“I‘m sorry, Gon.” 

He moves his arms to Killua’s back to hold him. “You buh—better. You shouldn’t… you shouldn’t have left.” He can’t help but give soft punches to Killua’s shoulder blades, gripping the fabric and crying. 

“How…” A shaky breath, and a swallow. “How am I supposed to believe anything you say after this?” 

For a moment, he receives no response, but then Killua’s voice is low, whispered and close to his ear, and Gon can hear the rumble of his chest as he speaks: “You don’t have to believe me. I’ll prove it this time.”

A defeated noise slips past Gon’s lips.

“And how are you going to prove it? What’s your choice?”

He’s expecting for Killua’s response to be immediate; Gon is expecting for Killua to hold him tighter and say he’ll return to the base, return with him, hands clasped together and that he’ll do whatever it takes to prove it to Gon that he meant his words. But Killua doesn’t say anything. 

He’s hesitating. 

The realization makes Gon feel sick. The tears stop, and he feels choked. 

Killua _still_ can’t decide. 

“Liar.” Gon spits, trying to push away. 

Killua holds him tighter. “I’m not a liar, Gon. I’m not lying.”

“You won’t give me a reply!” 

“I just don’t want you to suffer any more because of me!” 

Gon struggles away from the hands gripping him, and pushes Killua away, until Killua can look straight into his eyes. Until Killua can see the tears, and his red face, and runny nose, and quivering lips. He stares through the softer shakes of his shoulder, and the lurching of his heart. He stares. He wants Killua to see the hurt. 

“If your plan was to stop me from suffering, you’ve failed on a fucking _epic_ scale, Killua.” 

Killua’s eyes widen. “Gon—” 

“Nothing,” Gon speaks over him, “Absolutely nothing you can do will ever hurt as much as you leaving me had.” 

The memories come surging back. 

Not the happy ones. 

The one’s where Killua is holding Gon, checking his pant leg—slowly rolling it up. He thinks of Killua, then. Killua, who was careful and sure of himself. Of what he promised Gon. When he was sure Gon would _die_ , he was staying. This Killua, the one in front of him, left him.

He left him. And the promises. 

Gon finds it hard to breathe, hard to swallow. Hard to move. He feels defeated. “You promised we’d have a home after this entire mess was over. _You_ said we could be happy, and that it would be us, and a dog, and maybe I was ready to ask for something more too. Was that a lie too?” 

Killua’s response is fast. This time, he doesn’t hesitate on Gon. “No! No, it wasn’t. Please, Gon. It wasn’t a lie. You have to believe me.”

“You just said I wouldn’t have to. So prove it.” 

“‘M sorry, Gon. I’m so sorry.” 

Killua still isn’t answering his question. Gon can’t keep fighting this. He won’t fight a losing battle. 

“Please, if you won’t come back for me, come back for your sisters. Your sisters _need_ you.” 

Killua averts his eyes, and the tears are still spilling from his eyes. 

Gon can’t. He can’t kill himself like this. 

“I won’t.” 

“Killua—”

“I won’t return for them.” 

Gon’s heart shatters. It sinks into the floor, a pool of its former self. 

_What will he tell Alluka? How will he reassure Nanika?_

“I’ll return for the three of you.” 

An incredulous huff. Gon looks at Killua— _really_ looks. Searches his eyes for any hint of a lie. He needs to see, needs to make sure. 

“The three of us?”

Killua nods. 

“The three of you.” 

“And you’re just going to come back?”

“I said I’d start proving myself, right?”

“You shouldn’t have left if you were going to agree to come back so easily.” 

“I’m sorry—”

“I don’t want your apology. If you would’ve just talked to me, this entire fiasco could’ve been avoided.” 

“You were hurting too, Gon.” 

He furrows his brows. “That doesn’t mean I’d be selfish and not listen to your problems or your concerns. We’re supposed to be a team, I thought you told me you knew what a team was.” 

“I do.” 

“Mmm.” Gon hums. 

It grows quiet between them. 

Crickets chirp and continue to make noise as they sit on the floor. The world is ruined and maybe their world became a little ruined, too. But broken things can be repaired, and they can fix both—together. 

“We should, uh, get some rest,” Killua says after a beat of silence, “I assume we’ll start heading back as soon as the sun is up?”

Gon stares at him, and then nods. 

“Yeah. I’ll sleep, uh, a little further down, against that wall.” He points to the wall that has no windows, fully standing and at an angle where they can see the opening of the walls and windows in case anything decides to come in. 

The words make Killua look a little lost. He stares at the wall, and then Gon, and pursues his lips before shutting his eyes. “Alright. I’ll be a little further down, then.” 

He isn’t sure if Killua had thought Gon would sleep beside him after—after _this—_ but Gon won’t give in to that craving. What he wants more than to hold Killua is to have his space and prove his point. He needs Killua to understand his actions hurt.

Killua helps Gon up, moving the bag he’d dropped with Gon, and Gon is careful, taking the content and pressing it against the wall as he lays there, listening to nothing. If he listens hard enough, he’ll hear static. There’s—There’s a lot to think about. After everything that has happened, there’s a lot Gon has to go over in his mind. 

He thought he’d lose Killua forever. 

“Goodnight, Gon.” Killua’s words are soft, laced with a quiet love. 

Gon takes a moment, but he shuts his eyes and turns on his side. 

“Goodnight.” 

His words are a little jagged-edged. 

And just like that, Gon shuts his eyes, and pretends to sleep. 

Instead, he’ll go over everything in his mind, review every piece of information and think about it. 

He can hear Killua sigh after a moment, and shifting, before the room quietens. 

Gon isn’t sure how long he pretends to be asleep. 

When he hears Killua shift up and stand, move around and pace, Gon has half the mind to open his eyes and tell him to come closer, to come lay next to him so Gon can hold him and soothe him—because Killua _sounds_ anxious, and Gon is scared Killua will leave. Leave again, leave _him_ again. 

But he’s also mad at him. He’s upset—at a lot of things. 

And then the pacing stops, and Gon hears the footsteps come closer, before a material is draping over his body. And Gon is sure that it’s Killua’s jacket being placed on him. He knows because it smells like him, and the material is tattered and worn. 

It takes a lot of strength not to move when Gon feels Killua’s lips brush against his forehead and pull away all too soon. 

He whispers, quietly, moony: “You’re the reason I started counting the years again.” 

It takes a lot of strength not to snap his eyes open and ask _what_ Killua means. 

When Killua pulls away, and his form is receding, seating himself far from Gon again?

It takes a lot of strength not to stand and walk over to Killua, sit beside him and hug him and sink into his embrace.

“Y’know, I stopped counting the days after you left.” 

Killua pauses in his steps. He looks tense. “What?” 

They’d been traveling for a few days now. Retracing their steps back to where the prison would be. There should be two more cities to go through, and then they’ll find the highway that leads them off the road into the forest. Back _home_. 

Gon sighs, silent as he catches up to Killua. It looks like it’s going to rain. 

“I didn’t want a single day to pass where you weren’t there. So I just stopped counting until I found you again.” 

Killua’s eyes soften. They melt and glisten and stare, wide-eyed. He gives a small laugh. Gon can tell he’s itching to hold his hand and pull him close. He can tell, because Killua’s fingers twitch and clench and stay rigidly by his side, not moving a single inch, and he’s facing away from Gon. 

Gon wants to indulge, just a little. 

He misses Killua’s warmth. 

“I started counting again after I left. I reset the time.” 

Gon makes a noise of confusion. Slowly, he lets his fingers travel out until they’re nearly brushing against Killua’s as they walk down the road. 

Killua looks at him with a smile—it masks some of the pain and regret. “I started counting again because I wanted to remind myself how long it’d been since I left you. Every single time.” 

Gon’s lips wobble. 

Droplets start falling down from the sky. 

It’s raining. 

They should probably take cover. 

And yet, throughout the past days, Killua expressed only ardour in returning. Gon would wake to Killua already set to go, to Killua softly pushing some of the meal his way and asking him to drink some water. Gon would look at Killua and see it in his eyes: the pure, uncontainable _want_. 

Gon wonders. 

Slowly, Gon lets their fingers brush.

Killua startles, but Gon doesn’t let it bother him. He interlaces their fingers slowly, keeping his eyes forward. 

“If you were going to punish yourself that much for leaving, you shouldn’t have left in the first place.”

Not a single word spoken, and then Killua sighs. “I’m—I know. I panicked. I shouldn’t’ve.” 

Gon lets his focus travel back to Killua. Lets himself look at Killua’s side-profile, _by_ his side, instead of being behind him, watching his back recede. He realizes it quickly:

Yearning building within him, until it’s at the brink of spilling. 

Gon thinks maybe it’s overflowing now. 

He comes to a stop. Killua stops too, after realizing he’s tugging on Gon’s hand. He turns. 

“You’re so—” Gon begins, but he can’t find the right words, and the rain is falling harder. Gon doesn’t care. 

He pulls Killua forward, pulling on his alabaster hand to come forward, and Killua forces his weight toward the ground to slow Gon’s movements—tenses and locks up his muscle to gauge what Gon is doing. Gon doesn’t give him the chance, leaning forward instead, his other hand coming up to cup Killua’s cheek. 

“You know I still love you, right?” The words are whispered against Killua’s lips, before Gon is pressing his lips against Killua’s, savouring every bit of their kiss. It’s chaste, and not at all the one he craves to give him. 

_Patience._

Killua looks flustered—a little wide-eyed. Surprise coats his features. 

Gon breaks the kiss slowly, eyes meeting Killua’s, and he doesn’t relax the force of his gaze. He’s serious. “But you _have_ to prove yourself to me.” 

He breathes out. Killua breathes out, eyes flickering down to Gon’s lips and back up to his eyes. 

“I won’t make you promises. Promises can be broken, and I hurt you because of them. So I’ll say this instead—” He inhales, “I’m never letting go of you again, Gon. I won’t treat you the way I did.” 

A soft, incredulous laugh. Gon looks up at Killua, lips nearly touching as he leans in. The droplets of rain cascade down Killua’s skin so beautifully. “So then, is it okay if I start counting the days again, _corazón?”_

Killua nods, a smile stretching upon his face. “Yeah, sunshine, it is.” 

Returning to the camp takes a bit of time. A little longer than expected. The ash had worsened, and Killua had held Gon’s hand all throughout their time hiding. He’d murmured words of encouragement and kept him close for every passing second that they’d stayed hidden away, tucked into any four-walled-space they could find. 

It takes another full week before Gon recognizes the highway overpassing them, and he grows giddy, tugging on Killua’s hand a little faster—a little harder. 

They’d been near starving. There weren’t any rations anywhere, and their quick detour for scavenging had proven very unsuccessful. Killua had tried to make Gon eat whatever was left, but Gon would grow petulant and refuse to eat even a single bite if Killua didn’t get some too. 

Gon remembers how weak Killua had looked back at the house when he’d found him. 

And so they’d been like that for a whole week, until Killua had pointed out the highway, and they were passing underhead, and suddenly Gon just couldn’t contain himself. 

He wanted Killua back in the camp—Gon wanted to be back, but most importantly, he wanted _Killua_ to step foot back, to apologize to his sisters, to take his place back _home_. 

The highway is a mess of rusted cars and flattened tires—filled with debris and blood and bodies. There’s some ash on the ground.

“We’re close.” Killua points out, toward the opening off the road into a path of trees. There’s an excited gleam in his eyes. 

Grinning wide, Gon nods.

They’re pushing forward, walking through the dense forest with quick steps, not even taking a moment to recover when they start huffing from the tiredness of it all. When the gates of the prison come into view, Gon’s excitement triples. He loses all sense of fatigue. 

There’s someone waiting for them at the gate. 

Gon squints. There’s _two_ figures waiting right at the gate. 

As they get closer and the figure recognizes them, he hears the familiar cry of Alluka’s voice. The creaking of the front gate swinging open at full force, and Alluka’s feet slamming against the gravel path. Gon knows what’s coming. 

“Killua!” She shouts, and as she gets closer, she slows only a little. “Killua!” 

She’s breathless when she throws herself in Killua’s arms, and the force of her throw is so strong that Killua staggers backwards, one foot bracing against the ground to hold her without falling. He’s still weak from earlier. 

Killua laughs, cradling her head to his chest and smiling. “Hey, hey, easy there.” 

Alluka’s hands snake around Killua and hold him tight. 

“You’re back. Oh, thank God, you’re back.” 

Killua smiles softly, looking over at Gon so gently, so tenderly. 

_He didn’t ever want to leave._

The moment barely lasts. Alluka pulls away, frowning and staring straight into his eyes. “What the hell were you thinking, huh? Leaving Nanika and me? When we’re your family?”

He bites his lip and averts his gaze. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d be safer like that, but Gon proved me wrong already.” 

Her gaze softens, and she runs her thumb soothingly on his arms. “Big brother.” Her voice is gentle. Killua back at her. “I’m glad you’re back. And safe.” 

She leans away from him, and Gon hears Nanika’s gurgle—the choked cry of Killua’s name—and Killua looks up with wide eyes, stepping forward and opening his arms out to take Nanika into his embrace. She’s within his arms in seconds, making a choking sound of a sob, and Gon’s heart hurts for her. 

“ _Kih-Kiruah!”_ She cries, stuffing her face in his arms. _“Kiruah! Ah—I’m glad… I’m glad you… you’re back. I love Kiruah.”_

Killua’s eyes water. “Big brother loves you too, Nanika.” 

Alluka is coming into Gon’s peripheral, hugging him tightly. Gon feels her fingers wrap around him and grip his shoulders as she presses close, holding Gon like a lifeline. He can feel her warm breath stutter out, can feel her fingers shaking and struggling to keep the bruising grip on him. 

She’s so overwhelmed. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you so much for bringing back my big brother, Gon.” 

Gon nods his head as best as he can, feeling overwhelmed himself. He wraps his arms around Alluka and returns the hug just as firmly as she had. Slowly when their arms unwrap, and she looks at Gon softly, she reaches for Nanika’s hand. 

“I think there’s someone Gon might want to see.”

_Him?_

_Someone he wants to see?_

The name fills his head instantly. 

_Mito—Mito. She’s here? Mito is here?_

_Mito. His mom._

Gon’s heartbeat picks up. His eyes water and his hands shake and his thoughts fill only with his mother—the woman who raised him and cared for him. What does she look like? How is she now? Does she still look the way she did nine years ago? 

Killua looks over, shocked. There’s no hesitation when Gon reaches for Killua’s hands and intertwines their fingers with an iron grip, eyes sparkling. 

“Mito? Mito is here?” he says, voice quivering. He can’t believe it. He can’t—his mind is working on overdrive. 

Alluka grins. “Why not go see for yourself?” 

That’s more than enough invitation. It’s more than enough to act at all. 

Gon doesn’t wait. He’s waited for the past nine years. He won’t wait anymore—not, not if it’s Mito. Never.

He pulls Killua forward, running at a full sprint. With the speed they’re running, the wind makes Gon’s eyes water. But a laugh escapes his lips, repressed and shaken and excited. His heart pounds, and Killua is keeping up just as well, even if he was exhausted. He’s keeping up with Gon, by his side. 

_By his side._

Gon pushes the gates open, leaves it open for Alluka and Nanika, but he doesn’t stop. He won’t stop for anything. 

He swings the doors inside the building open, running past refugees who stop and stare. They take in Gon’s return, and Killua’s reappearance. Gon doesn’t stop to pay them any heed. 

_She’ll be in the cafeteria, right? She has to, she probably is._

Gon should’ve asked before he took off, but he was happy. He was beyond happy. 

There aren’t enough words to express it.

Upon pushing the door open, swallowing a deep gulp of air, Gon sees. His eyes search and scan and wander around the entire room. He sees Shoot, and Knuckle, he sees Kurapika and Leorio. 

And then he sees Zushi and Ikalgo, sitting in front of a woman. A woman with bright orange hair, strands cut unevenly, hairdo messy. But Gon recognizes the color of her skin, remembers the shape of her body and the way she sits. Inside his chest, his heart beats frantically, and he struggles to catch his breath. 

Ikalgo and Zushi stop talking, looking up, and stare. 

He knows who is in front of them. 

He knows, Gon _knows._

She’s turning. She’s turning her head and looking back and her hazel eyes catch his and her face brightens so much that a broken smile bursts through her features. And Gon is quick, he untangles his fingers from Killua’s, running forward, and she scrambles to get out of the seat, pulling herself off the chair and propelling herself forward. 

“ _Mamá_!” 

“Gon!” She cries, and she’s extending her arms out, grasping at Gon’s body, bringing him close into a crushing hug. 

_Her warmth._

Gon can feel her warmth. 

“Mito—Aunt Mito!” Gon laughs loudly, tears brimming at his eyes, and he’s picking her up effortlessly and spinning her in his excitement. She laughs loudly, fingers snaking through Gon’s hair and feeling the black locks. 

Breathless—he feels breathless. He feels like he’s on a high. Mito is _here._

“ _Mi flor._ ” She says softly as Gon sets her down. He’s taller than her now. She’s looking at him with a wide smile, eyes filled with emotion, fingers quivering as she reaches up and cups his cheeks softly. “You’ve grown a lot.” 

Gon relaxes into her hold, placing his hand over hers and keeping it there. The feeling to cry rises in his chest: it chokes him and muffles his ability to get a single coherent word out. He feels like anything he tries to say will make him burst into tears. 

“When did you arrive?” 

“Just a few days ago. I followed your messages on the walls.” 

Gon laughs, “Were they helpful?”

“Absolutely not. I always told you to fix that horrid handwriting of yours. Ging couldn’t even read his name.” 

His eyes widen. “Ging? Ging is here?” 

She nods, pointing over to the side. 

Killua is standing to the side along with Ging. They both look so stiff next to each other—Killua is rigid, and Ging is sitting, posture sunk into the seat. He’s tilting his head up the ceiling, eyes shut and arms crossed in his sleep. The image gets a giggle out of Gon. 

“ _Mamá_ ,” Gon begins softly, “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Mito smiles and nods. 

“Killua,” Gon says, and Killua looks over, scrambling up and flushing—eyes wide. Gon hears Mito stifle a laugh between her lips. “C’mere. I want you to meet Mito.” 

Killua comes over all like a frightened animal—steps quiet and timid, and Gon has to grab his hand and pull him closer, because he’s taking too long, and Killua hisses, telling him to _slow down_ , but the words of caution only make Gon laugh louder. Killua is quiet when Gon interlaces their fingers. He’s quiet when Gon pulls him even closer, shoulders touching side by side. 

“Mito, this is Killua.” Gon runs his thumb soothingly on Killua’s dorsal to calm him. He looks up at her. “He’s my partner.” 

If possible, her smile widens. 

“And Killua, this is my mom, Mito.” 

When Killua does meet her eyes, it’s after he takes a breath and _truly_ looks at her. His blue eyes are shining, and his voice is gentle, outstretching his hand for a handshake. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Mito. Gon always talks about you.” 

She hides a laugh behind her hand, shaking his hand with her other hand, eyes crinkling. “There’s no need to be so formal.”

Without a moment's notice, she’s leaning in, and pressing a kiss to Killua’s cheek. 

The panic colors in Killua’s face quality—it’s palpable when his features shift into distress and he’s looking at Gon for help, hands stiffening by his sides and spine going rigid once again. 

Gon snorts, and Mito laughs outright. 

“Gon, you didn’t keep our customs alive at all, did you?” 

An embarrassed laugh bubbles past Gon’s lips, and he rubs the nap of his neck—averting his gaze. 

“Uh—No?...” His voice trails off, unsure. 

Killua is scrambling to correct him—gripping his hand in Gon’s. “No—uhm, he totally did!”

Mito arches an eyebrow in question. She doesn’t believe Killua at all. 

An awkward silence wafts through the air. 

After a few seconds, she speaks again, voice tender, eyes softening. Killua stares at her.

“Thank you—” She says, “Thank you for taking care of my son. I know he’s such a hurricane—always rowdy and wild.”

“ _Mamá_!” Gon sputters, cheeks reddening, 

Killua chuckles, relaxing more. “You’re not wrong. He’s definitely thick-headed. Once he’s set on an idea, he won’t let go.” 

Gon pouts. “ _Corazón!”_

The name makes Killua redden, and Mito laughs louder. 

“That’s interesting, Gon. I didn’t know you’d use that.” 

He opens his mouth and shuts it again—fumbling with his words, the flush on his cheeks darkening and extending to his ears. 

“How about I show you around, _mamá?”_ Gon says quickly, grabbing both Mito and Killua’s hands, dragging them towards the door. 

“Hold up—” Killua stammers, “Why am I included in this grand tour?”

Gon hears Mito give a laugh. “This is our punishment for embarrassing him. Or he’s just being needy—I’m sure that hasn’t changed in nine years.” 

He bites his lip to keep himself whining. 

So what if he craves Killua’s hand and warmth constantly? 

“Oh, he still is. Trust me, I’d know.” Killua says, and his response is more confident. 

They share a laugh together. 

Despite his embarrassment, Gon is relieved. He’s relieved that Mito is here, and Killua is back—he’s glad they’re getting along and happy. He’s glad that, at the expense of his own mortification, they’re talking and not awkwardly quiet. That they’ve clicked. 

It’s everything he wanted.

And despite the state of the world, Gon thinks that _this_ —inside these walls, with his lover, and his mother, reunited, nothing can bring him down. Despite the voices and the nightmares and the Screamers just outside, Gon will be okay. This will be okay. 

Their laughter echoes down the hallway, along with their footsteps—fingers intertwined. 

_They can develop the cure._

_They’ll fix this._

_Together._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading “Solivagant”! 
> 
> Hello everyone! Welcome back to Killugon Paradise, haha. Today I come bearing the release of my Killugon Apocalypse AU. It was such a thrilling experience to write—especially because while I myself am not too fond of apocalypse stories, I still like the concepts within them. The idea that the world around them is in ruin, but Killua and Gon make their own world for themselves within the confines of their prison base is something I think is really beautiful. 
> 
> I really wanted to focus this story on Killua's relationship with Alluka and Nanika, as well as Gon's relationship to Kite. I know Kite wasn't really mentioned, but he's pivotal to Gon in every way, from the get-go of the story. I also wanted Killua and Gon to develop slowly, since I thought it would be realistic that way. Gon's trauma's and Killua's own fears make them clash in their own ways, but they're trying hard. 
> 
> Once again, RIP to Ikalgo, LMAO. 
> 
> It was such an honor to work alongside many other writers and speak to so many people with similar interests in HXHBB2020—even if I was silent for a large portion of the event due to other responsibilities, it was an honor to get to know them. I spent a good chunk of the first month for HXHBB just typing this away. I didn't really like the story at first—I wasn't too sure about it, but I think the overall result was nice. 
> 
> Huge thanks to my co-writer and best friend Sara!! I couldn't have done this without her. A huge chunk of this story—I'd say the majority—is of her own brilliant mind. If you'd like to show your support to her, please follow her on Twitter! And also a big thanks to Liv for BETA reading this enormous fic. She's so sweet, I really appreciate her help—I loved working with her throughout this event too. 
> 
> As such, please don’t forget to leave a comment or kudos, and your thoughts about this entire story. I eagerly await everyone's response to this fic and AU once they read through this behemoth of words. I actually didn’t intend for this oneshot to be longer than 20k words, but the universe was really nice so I wanted to explore it LOL. Kudos to you if you get this far and are reading this; I love you!
> 
> Once again, it was an honor to be a part of HXH BigBang this year. 
> 
> ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS:  
> "Mito. La Luz. Donde you said Ging always was. " ⇨ "Mito. The light. Where you said Ging always was."  
> "Mito, vete pa riba. Where Ging is." ⇨ "Mito, go up. Where Ging is."  
> "Corazón." ⇨ "Heart."  
> "Buenos dias, Corazón." ⇨ "Good morning, [my] heart."  
> "Par or non?" ⇨ "Even or odd?"  
> "en agua" ⇨ "in water"  
> "Mamá!" ⇨ "Mom!"  
> "Mi flor" ⇨ "My flower"  
>  _(Let me know if I missed any translations, it's hard to search through 65k words lol) ___  
> 
> 
> _  
>   
> _
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> __  
> _Follow me on SNS:_  
>  Twitter: @peachiinari  
> Tumblr:@peachiinari


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